


And One Day All will Know

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Deaf Karkat Vantas, F/F, F/M, Gen, Humanstuck, Internalized Homophobia, Look at all this fucking drama, M/M, Mute Dave Strider, POV Multiple, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, TFW your sarcastic suggestion to form a band is taken seriously, [other tags that are spoilers], [other tags that are very definitely spoilers], the mystery of dave strider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 38,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7257721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p class="def"><i>You watch me</i><br/>
<i>Just watch me</i><br/>
<i>I'm calling</i><br/>
<i>And one day all will know</i></p><p class="def">You'd think that a music major and an art major could share a bathroom for a year without turning it into the world's biggest clusterfuck, wouldn't you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We'll work that silver magic

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Red Converse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/705852) by [MageofHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MageofHeart/pseuds/MageofHeart). 



> **This story is set in the middle of a not-so-distant future American social experiment known as Skaia. The goal of the experiment is to create a utopian society, albeit through questionable means. Geographically, think of Skaia as an area the size of one of the middle-sized states.**
> 
> Any comments, feedback, and corrections are always welcome and appreciated! Summary lyrics are from _Spring Awakening_ , "All That's Known." 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_oh **we'll work that silver magic** / then we'll aim it at the wall_](https://youtu.be/r7qh8eoILrU) [[x]](http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-bitch-of-living-lyrics-spring-awakening.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **monospace fonts are rad as fuck and i like them so i'm using them and you're totes allowed to ignore it by ignoring my styling**   
> 

 

> **To the parents of a Young Adult:**
> 
> _Is your child MISBEHAVING? Are they ACTING OUT or becoming HARD TO CONTROL? Are they beginning to have a SENSE OF INDEPENDENCE?_
> 
> _Are you at your wit’s end trying to control your child?_
> 
> _If you answered “yes” to any of the preceding questions, then INSTITUTE OF SKAIA might just be the perfect fit for you! For only TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS PER SEMESTER,* we will relieve you of your unruly young adult. On our welcoming and diverse campus, your child will be taught CAREER AND LIFE SKILLS, which they will undoubtedly use in their future. At Institute of Skaia, we are dedicated to CREATING THE MODEL CITIZENS OF TOMORROW, starting with your unruly young adults of today!_
> 
> _The Institute of Skaia is located at the edge of its namesake suburb. Within our small city’s gorgeous limits, your children will have access to a host of standard social venues. A twenty minute walk off of our campus offers your child access to a safe and family-friendly MALL, a variety of OFF-CAMPUS FOOD CHOICES, two different PARKS, and a COMMUNITY CENTER._
> 
> _Our campus is small and SOCALLY ORIENTED! On our accessible grounds, your young adult will acquire the social skills needed to become successful in their later lives. To ensure the safety of our students, we also provide TRACKING DEVICES.* This allows for the student to have their own sense of FREEDOM, while also ensuring their SAFETY AND WELLBEING. Alerts are sent to us whenever your child leaves the city limits of Skaia, and such actions are strictly prohibited. Thus, you can be assured that your aspiring young adult is on a constant path to success!_
> 
> _Applying is free and easy! Simply submit your child’s information online and mail us the required documentation. Additional instructions can be found on our website._
> 
> _At Institute of Skaia, we turn today’s delinquents into tomorrow’s civic role models._ ™
> 
> _*$10,000 per semester does not include the cost of room, board, and supplies; policy covers only food and a guaranteed education._
> 
> _*Tracking devices are NOT optional. Provision of such devices is free, but $200 per semester allows you, the parent(s), to access to our in-house monitoring software. Available for computers, tablets, and phones, this small software installation will ensure you have the same ability to monitor your child as we do._

* * *

 

The room is sparse, stuffy, and surprisingly small. Its walls are made of plain, white cinderblock and its little, jail-cell-like window is covered by a yellowed canvas roll. A chain to its left raises and lowers the makeshift curtain.

The bed is bolted in place, and set lengthwise against the back wall. There’s a desk, which is also bolted in place, against the eastern wall. Next to that is an alcove that, presumably, is your closet. Here, they’ve also secured a dresser. On the western wall, there’s a bookshelf, a one-person dining table, a small sink, and a door to the bathroom.

Certainly, it’s not the most luxurious place to live. The fact that there’s a mound of what appears to be dust and a collection of some anonymous former occupant’s hair in the corner doesn’t help.

Nonetheless, it’s homey. It’s quaint. Everything’s in place. You’ve set up your laptop and decorations.

Your name is Dave Strider and, despite the imperfections and possible health code violations of your newfound living situation, you’re pleased. Not that you’re hard to please; your basic concept of a home is a bedroom and a few other rooms, which you were never allowed to see.

You’re a nineteen-year-old college freshman. Yes. You’re a freshman in college, and you’re at a school that your legal guardian chose for you. It all boils down to the fact that you’ve got an iffy record of petty theft and absenteeism. By law, since you took five years to graduate high school, your brother’s legal custody over you is extended until you’re twenty-one. They call it the Prospit Youth Enhancement Act; instead of jailing you for your minor crimes, they just make you a legal child for a while longer.

Moving on... You were born without a properly developed something-of-some-sort. A big, annoyingly complicated word and paragraphs of bullshit medical explanations. It’s all irrelevant, seeing as it’s easier to just say that you can’t speak. You can make some noises, but you’re not able to articulate nearly enough of the sounds you need to speak.

Now, back to your living arrangements. The room to your right is occupied by your longtime friend, John Egbert. The room to your left is occupied by someone named Karuna Vantas, and he’ll be your suitemate for the year.

“HEY.” John’s voice carries easily through the relatively thin wall. You can hear him beating against his side of the cinderblock. “Earth to Strider. We’re meeting to discuss some bullshit about rules.”

_Fucking lovely._

You shove your hands into the pockets of your jeans and step into the hallway. At Skaia, you don’t get resident assistants; you get hallway chaperones. Your HC happens to be a short, balding, nervous-looking man who goes by HB. And, as you wait with baited breath to be bored to death with a procedural hall safety meeting, the man’s beady little eyes sweep up and down the hall. He studies each face with the utmost care and, after a few moments of painfully awkward silence, he speaks. “There are currently only forty-nine students present,” he says, his voice nasal and emotionless, “Who’s missing?”

As if to remind you that you’re at a so-called behavioral rehabilitation college, you’re then forced to listen as the HC does roll call. Like you’re in first grade.

Eventually, he hits the name of the missing student. “Karuna Vantas?”

There’s a hushed murmur. A ripple of confusion which runs through the hall.

After flipping through some pages on his clipboard, HB grumbles something under his breath. He jabs his pen in your direction. “You, Strider. Go get Vantas and bring him out here. Skip knocking and go through the bathroom.”

You nod.

In all honesty, you weren’t really listening to the HC. You heard what he was saying, but the meaning flew over your head. If it _literally_ flew over your head, it’d be flying high enough to be little more than some flashing lights in the sky. The sort that you make a wish to and, then, get mildly annoyed because it wasn’t actually a star.

With all the courtesy of a rampaging bull, you throw open the door to your suitemate’s room. You find him in the process of trying to secure an obscenely large kantha quilt to the wall behind his bed.

He’s fairly short and somewhat stocky. His silver eyes contrast with his medium brown skin, and his thick, black hair is—for lack of a better word—messy.

When he doesn’t respond to your first loud huff of annoyance, you simply throw your balled-up dormitory courtesy handout at him.

He responds by turning on his heel. He greets you with both of his middle fingers raised. He then proceeds to move his hands in what’s undeniably fluid sign language. " _Who the fuck are you? Get out of my room."_

You offer a nonchalant shrug. You fingerspell your name in a few short moments before pausing. After some thought, you add your name sign. Your left hand forms the letter “D.” You cross it with your flattened right hand, forming an “X” at your chest level, and quickly move your hands down and outwards. If you were to be asked what it looks like, you’d say that it’s roughly equal to an angled motion for quitting. Technically, when done properly, it means silence. ( _Your name?_ )

He pauses. " _K-A-R-K-A-T."_

And, now, you also pause. " _Not K-A-R-U-N-A?"_

" _No."_  The tips of his middle and forefinger touch his thumb. It’s a singular, solid motion, and his furrowed brows make his attitude clear. ( _It’s the name I use on my art._ ) He, too, adds his name sign. The extended index and forefinger of his left hand, forming a “K,” brush against the flattened palm of his right. It’s the basic sign of painting.

You nod. " _We’re having a hall meeting."_

His response is terse and universal. Another middle finger.

" _I don’t want to go, either."_  You’re not sure why you’re trying to help this guy out. He seems like a diehard asshole, but he _is_ your suitemate. Besides, you guess there is a reason. You’ll look bad if you can’t get him to cooperate.

He, however, quirks his brow. He touches the tip of his index finger near his left ear, and moves it in a small arc, which ends near the left edge of his lips.  _"I'm Deaf."_

 _"Act like you’re listening?"_  You have to admit that he has a point. HB obviously isn’t the type to know sign language. ( _You think anyone actually gives a fuck?_ )

A sound akin to a disinterested groan escapes Karkat. With the most poignant sense of reluctance you’ve ever witnessed, he nods. He holds his hands, fingers spread apart, in front of his chest. He alternates moving each hand forwards. First, left. Then, right. " _Whatever."_  He rolls his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair, adding afterwards for you to go first.

And, as you head for what you’re certain will be a good hour of bullshit, you hear him following behind.

A quick glance reveals that his arms are folded across his chest. His brows are furrowed. Aloud, he offers the world mumbled sounds of unabashed annoyance.

In a way, it’s cute. He’s trying to look tough, but you’re finding it hard to see that. Maybe it’s the grey sweater vest. Or, maybe, it’s the shirt whose sleeves are too long for his arms. You’re not sure what it is, but it’s there. And it’s confusing as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't actually know sign language tbh and i'm going off of research so if you wanna help out there or correct something, please go ahead and do that


	2. There's a moment you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _**there's a moment you know** / you're fucked_ ](http://www.metrolyrics.com/totally-fucked-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSOYR2uh3Iw)

They call it Morning Assurance.

You’re supposed to wake up at 7:30 every day. Mondays. Tuesdays. Wednesdays to Fridays, and even Saturdays and Sundays. Every day. Awake at 7:30. Dressed in your uniform and in the hallway by 8:00. Then, there’s roll call.

Now, beyond the obvious, you have to object to the uniform. It’s outdated and awful. Shitty slacks and a dress shirt. Blazer. Tie. Everything. They don’t even let you keep your shades on your collar and, somehow, just that makes you antsy. Nonetheless, you still have them; you put them in your jacket pocket. The fact that you can’t feel the plastic arms of your shades poking you in the chest burns at you like a spark from a stray cigarette through paper. It eats at the edges and, despite the fact that you’ve been dressed for barely thirty minutes, you’re incredibly uncomfortable. You find yourself fiddling with them.

“STRIDER.” A yardstick comes down on the wrist of your left hand. Instinctively, it withdraws from where it’s buried itself in your jacket pocket. Your eyes land on HB, who just so happens to be wearing the exact same goddamned hat. “Fidgeting is unacceptable.”

You nod.

After a few moments of staring at you as if you’re a photorealistic portrait of Satan’s penis, HB slaps the yardstick just above your head. This time, it doesn’t hit you; it just makes a loud noise. Loud enough for everyone to stare at you as he proceeds to do exactly what you expected, “Apologize,” he demands.

By now, you realize what’s going on. You know what he’s throwing down, and you figure you might as well pick it up. After all, avoiding it will just make the balding old bastard angrier, right? Without much fanfare, you open your mouth and prepare to let your standard, incoherent response fly.

Instead, the door to the left of your slams open. A disgruntled, disheveled Karkat stumbles into the hallway. His tie hangs out of a jacket whose buttons are put through the wrong holes. And, the minute he stumbles from the room, he’s met with a yardstick to the shoulder. Somehow, he keeps his composure. He winces and offers a low growl of annoyance.

“Vantas,” HB thunders, “You’re late.”

You and John exchange glances. Looking at him, it’s obvious that he’s barely holding back his laughter. Not that it matters. John’s the exception to the rule. He’s here because he wanted to be; he accompanied you, swearing that he wouldn’t let you go to “jail for college students” alone.

Karkat, too, finds humor in the situation. He offers a harsh, crackling laugh, and it’s loud. It’s blatantly insincere. Disdain drips from it like water drips from a melting icicle. He offers a simple, signed response. ( _Keep talking, asshole._ )

HB takes the bait, though it doesn't seem that he knows what's been said. “You disrespectful little punk,” he grunts. With his chest puffed forwards, he slams your suitemate against the wall. A single punch results in an impressive nosebleed, and the blood stands against his knuckles as if it was spattered on fresh snow. “You all might think you’re damned invincible, but you’re not. You’re nothing. You’re here to learn how to work, and reality isn’t going to put up with your bullshit. Take this cocky airhead as an example; you’ll be next.”

There’s a murmur of realization. Then, the crowd thins. Everyone is, as the schedule says, to report immediately to breakfast.

You, however, find yourself staring at a stunned Karkat. He’s slumped against the wall, holding his jacket sleeve to his bleeding nose. Bright, angry red inches its way across the sleeve.

“Leave him,” John warns. He nudges your shoulder as he passes. “You’re just going to get into deeper shit, dude.”

You touch the fingertips of your flattened left hand to your cheek; your hand drops, forming a loose “Y.” ( _I know that._ ) By now, you can’t help but feel bad for Karkat. After all, the only thing on his record is being the first person to act against the rules. Besides, it was a damned hilarious situation. HB has to know that Karkat’s not hearing a single word he says. He _has_ to. That’s something you’d put down for a chaperone to know. It’s one of those things you’d write in the “additional notes” section of the permission slip.

You wave John on and watch as he reluctantly departs.

Once he's out of the way, you return to your room. You pull one of your spare blazers from its hanger and snag a fistful of tissues. Returning to the hall, you nudge your suitemate on the shoulder to draw his attention.

He responds with furrowed brows. As he’s still trying to keep his nose from bleeding everywhere, he uses only one hand to sign. _"_ _What do you want? You here to tell me I’m too fucking loud?"_

Your index and middle fingers touch your thumb. You hold yourself with a dismissive, casual attitude. ( _Nah._ ) Before continuing, you offer him your spare blazer and the tissues. _"Grabbed some shit for you. Not sure if we’re the same size."_

After eyeing you over a few times, Karkat grabs the tissues. He pushes your arm, upon which you’ve draped your blazer, away. _"W_ _e’re not the same size."_

 _"Not even a thank you?"_  You accompany your response with a small smirk.

He rolls his eyes.  _"What the fuck are you doing?"_

You put the side of your left hand, which currently forms an “A,” onto your flattened right palm. Moving this gesture slightly towards Karkat completes the phrase. ( _Helping you._ ) To maintain your air of cool indifference, you quickly add a shrug.

" _I don’t need help."_  He shakes his head and moves his hand, its index finger bent, towards you.

Naturally, you scoff. A huff of mixed laughter and annoyance slips through your lips.  _"Grumpy asshole."_

He, too, scoffs. It’s a loud sneer, and the noise echoes up and down the hallways. Obviously, he has no clue loud he’s being.  _"Cocky piece of shit."_

_Wow. Rude._

Taking a page from his book, you offer him your middle finger.

As you’re turning to leave, though, you see something else. He holds the fingers of his flattened left hand close to his lips. His arm moves the hand out, towards you, and down.  _"Thank you."_

 _"Whatever."_  Yes. You know you should have just returned the gesture, but you’ve got an image to maintain. You’re Dave Strider. Nonetheless, you figure it’s best to make some sort of conversation. John was right; you’re going to be in deep shit when you show up late. There’s no way you’re walking into that dining hall alone. Hell, there’s no way you’re letting even _this_ asshole walk into that place alone. " _What’re you studying?"_

He brushes the tip of his left hand’s little finger against his flattened right palm. _"Art."_  He follows this with a quizzical look. A sort of what-the-fuck-did-you-expect type of expression.  _"What about you?"_

As if you’re conducting a chorus, you swing your left hand towards and, then, away from your body. Below and to the side, you hold your right hand flat, as if you’re holding a book. _"_ _Music_. _"_

Karkat’s brows furrow. The left raises higher than the right, and the edges of his lips twitch. He offers a loud, confused “hah.”

You move your left fist, its palm facing inwards, to your lips. A few more signs follow. _"_ _I’m mute. I can hear fine."_

There’s a long pause. For a while, Karkat seems to mull over this new information. He lets it ruminate in his mind and, eventually, he breaks the awkward silence. _"_ _The world’s got one fucked up sense of humor."_

Despite your best efforts, you laugh. It’s a loud, graceless snort that’s on the same level of uncoolness as John’s. From what you can gather, though, Karkat doesn’t hear it. So, you play it off. You turn and head towards the door; he follows.

The dining hall is relatively close. It’s no more than ten minutes away, and that’s if you’re walking as slowly as you can. It’s enough of a distance to continue your conversation, though.

_"How pissed off do you think the administrators will be?"_

Karkat frowns. He rolls his eyes and shrugs.  _"Who fucking knows?"_

The question, as it turns out, is answered quickly.

A shadow falls over both of you and, following it, you see HB.

“You must be trying really hard to be as much of a problem as possible, Strider,” he huffs, “Because you’re making my life a living hell.”

You shrug.

He grabs onto the collar of your shirt with one hand and the loosely tied portion of tie around Karkat’s neck with the other. Not surprisingly, he then proceeds to drag both of you to the dining hall.

Seeing as you’re behind his back, you nudge your thoroughly annoyed suitemate. When you have his attention, you sign. _"I bet we’re being taken to get stickers. We’re model students."_

“Huh?” He responds. " _Are you fucking stupid?"_

You pause.

_Oh. Yeah. Facial expression._

You repeat yourself, this time exaggerating your facial expressions. It’s slight. So, so slight. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice the difference, but you have a feeling that Karkat will.

And, to your satisfaction, he does. A reluctant smile spreads across his face as he flips you the bird.

Somewhere, deep in the pit of your stomach, you can feel a strange warmth. There’s a light fluttering. _"You thinking about your award speech? I’m going to thank my worthless sack of shit brother."_

_"I’ll deny any knowledge of your existence."_

Another snort laugh escapes you. HB tugs at your collar, forcing you to stagger forwards.

In reply, Karkat also laughs. Again, it’s loud. It’s loud enough for HB to physically jump in surprise. After quickly regaining his composure, however, he does to Karkat as he’d done to you. A single, harsh tug on the neck of his tie. An uttered string of profanities.

_Clearly, this place is little more than a thinly veiled jail. But, maybe, it won’t be all that bad. Maybe._


	3. And there's no one who knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**and there's no one who knows** and there's nowhere to go_ [](http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-mirrorblue-night-lyrics-spring-awakening.html)[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4mAo-u0ZbxM)]

Classes are boring as hell. Practical economic mathematics isn’t exactly a party. Hell, it’s torture. You spend a solid two hours wishing nothing more than to pull out your own brainstem and pluck it like a guitar string. Bonus points if you can do this in front of the class as performance art.

Now, you sit in the shade of a massive tree of some sort. You tug at your tie, huffing as it loosens a bit. Right now, it’s a good ninety degrees outside. The humidity is the real killer, though. And you’ve seen kids getting a lot of shit for just rolling up their jacket sleeves. You might not be a believer in conformity, but you’d rather not add injury to sweaty insult.

“Slot B classes are beginning in ten minutes. Slot B classes begin in ten minutes.” A thin, lanky old man shuffles through campus. He bellows his words through a megaphone, scanning the crowds for any sort of suspicious activity.

From nearby, there’s a loud groan. A heavy thud.

You turn to find Karkat sitting nearby.

His fingers are tangled in his hair, and his eyelids are dropping sleepily. Sweat soaks the lapel of his jacket. As you look on, he reaches into his bag. He pulls out a bottle of what seems to be flavored water and chugs, wiping the excess from his lips when he’s finished.

According to your watch, it’s 10:30. Lunch won’t be served until noon, and John’s busy until then. So, you see little else to do. You’re not allowed to return to your room without a so-called dismissal waiver. The commons is too loud.

You lean over and tap him on the shoulder.

( _What do you want?_ ) His brows draw together, their inner edges pressing against one another.

You shrug. Honestly, you’re not sure what you’re looking for. Comradery? Friendship? Who the hell knows? You’re bored as fuck, and you’re down for anything that will alleviate that feeling. _"Did you just get out of class?"_

After a brief nod, he holds both of his hands at chest level. With each forming a “C,” he moves his arms so that the palms go from facing one another to facing inwards. He then puts the fingers of his flattened right hand to his lips and moves them down and out, ending with the palm facing towards the ground. The can’t-begin-to-put-up-with-this-bullshit look on his face completes the message. ( _Class was awful._ )

 _"Same."_  Your left hand forms a “Y” and moves back and forth, between you and him. The way it’s positioned results in your thumb pointing towards you and your little finger pointing at him. You roll your eyes and, against your better judgement, pull out your shades.

“Huh?” Karkat’s vocalization draws your attention. _"_ _How the fuck am I supposed to understand you with those ugly things on your face?"_

The fingers of your left hand brush twice against the fingers of your loosely flattened right hand. ( _Easy._ ) A small smirk crosses your face as you continue. _"_ _You don’t need to understand me." You slip them on, adjusting them until they rest perfectly on the bridge of your nose._

" _I definitely don’t understand you, asshole."_  A sigh escapes Karkat, slipping through his lips as a harsh rasp. _"W_ _hat got your ass sent here?"_

 _"Petty theft. Skipping school."_  Without really thinking about it, you allow yourself to say something. Nothing meaningful. A simple, quiet “pah.” Then, " _You?"_

Both of his hands form fists. He crosses them, withdrawing once the rough middle of his forearms overlap, and repeats the movement. You can sense a sort of pride behind his slight smile.  _"Fighting."_

“Hm?” Looking at him, you honestly can’t see it. Sure, he’s an angry guy. But, you can’t see him physically fighting people.  _"You can throw a punch?"_

" _I was the only Deaf kid in my school. I had to have some way to get those fuckers to stop bothering me._  He shrugs.

_"What's your next class?"_

He grimaces. Obviously, he’s enjoying school as much as you are. In other words, he’s hating it. " _Practical chemistry."_

“NO SUNGLASSES ALLOWED.”

You jump. The voice is unfamiliar, and, looking to the source, so is the angry old woman berating you. She stands a good three yards away, but the look on her face is enough to convince you to remove them. You slip them back into your pocket just in time for Karkat to interject with a loud, harsh laugh.

_"I fucking told you."_

_"Fuck off."_

_"You started the conversation."_  As if he knows that he has a valid point, he grins. For some reason, you notice that his teeth are oddly tapered. Sharp, almost. It’s not extreme, but it’s strange enough for you to notice. You don’t mention it, though. You let him continue. " _Are you always this fucking annoying?"_

 _"Maybe."_  A shrug. Out of the corner of your eye, you see some kid wearing a purple scarf getting dragged off. " _Are you actually cussing, or do you just really love using your middle finger?"_

 _"Kiss my ass."_  He rolls his eyes and shoves your shoulder. Then, he begins to gather his things. He throws his bag over his shoulder and offers you a short wave. " _I’m done putting up with your shit."_

On the most superficial level, you don’t really care. He’s leaving. Big deal. Yet, for some reason, you can’t help but rise from your spot on the ground. Something deep within you drives your feet, moving you forwards. You block him off. " _Would you like to meet up later?"_

He frowns. It’s not one of those mild frowns, either. It’s an inverted arch of confusion. _"_ _Where the fuck is this coming from?"_  He follows this by quirking his brows and holding his hands at chest level, the palms facing downwards. His right hand is flat, and his left hand forms an “S.” The way he moves his hands is reminiscent of feet walking.

" _What was that?"_

" _S-T-R-I-D-E-R."_  He pauses, adding to the response. _"Y_ _our name, jackass."_

You smirk. Until now, you’ve only ever been known as the sign you’d shown him. One hand forming a “D.” Making the movement for silence. _"Y_ _ou intent on changing my name?"_

" _I_ _won’t dignify you with your first name."_

 _"Harsh."_  You pause and, suddenly, come to realize what you’ve done. You freeze. Your hands hang in front of you like towels on a clothesline. For some strange reason, you realize that your mouth is incredibly dry. Still, you push forward, doing your best to maintain your composure.  _"Tonight?"_

 _"I have a night class."_  A loud, drawn-out sigh follows. He rolls his eyes to emphasize his point.  _"Tomorrow night?"_

Making your response’s tone clear is a matter of posturing. You let your shoulders drop. Your expression is relaxed. When you sign, you do so loosely. _"Sure. That’s good for me."_

Once again, he offers a quick wave. You also believe that he flashes you a small smile, but you’re not sure. That might be a trick of the light. In fact, thinking about it, that was definitely just you seeing things. Totally.

And, even if he _did_ smile at you, it doesn’t matter. You’re not about to get involved with your suitemate. That’s a recipe for absolute disaster.

_No. No way. No fucking way._


	4. Something beautiful, a new chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**something beautiful, a new chance** / hear its whispering there again_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/whispering-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MMwPpFn87K4)]

“You just might be gay, dude.” As John finishes his statement, the rubber bouncy ball he’s been throwing around thuds against the ceiling. He catches it when it falls and turns to face you. “It’s no big deal, dude. Chill out.”

 _"It's a huge deal. Bro's going to kick my ass."_  You frown. You put your hand in front of you. The palm of your left hand faces up; the palm of your right hand faces down. With a smooth, swift motion, you reorient your hand, reversing the positioning. _"I'm dead."_

“You’re not dead,” John grumbles. “You’ll be fine. You’re a legal adult, right? Run away.”

" _Yeah. I’ll just go to Sign Language City, where there’s actual equal employment."_  To finish your comment, you roll your eyes. You tug at a string which hangs from the sleeve of your shirt. With neither any sort of interest nor any real disinterest, you watch as some of the fabric unravels.

“It’s not that bad.”

 _"Not that bad?"_  You tug at your hair and rock backwards, slamming your back into the wall that’s parallel to your bed. _"_ _No one wants their groceries scanned by someone they don’t understand._ _"_

“It’s not that hard to pick up.”

 _"It’s literally its own language. It has its own grammar."_ You know that he means well, but you also know that John’s not exactly the most helpful person. He’s like one of those “For Dummies” books. He’ll help out in a broad, general way; asking him to fix smaller problems is like shoving your hand up your ass to fix a headache, though. ( _Shit. Never mind._ )

“Okay.” John shrugs. He pops open his can of soda, which has been sitting on the table for two damned hours, and glances at you warily. “Isn’t Karkat supposed to be coming?”

" _You ready to rip your pants off and pose for him or something?"_  You smirk and waggle your eyebrows, prompting a laugh from John.  _"He'll be here soon."_

“So… Do I have to use sign language or…?”

You pause and think about this for a moment. Eventually, you respond. You furrow your brows and touch the tips of your extended middle and index finger against your flattened right palm. You then turn and withdraw the hand, so that the palm faces you. When it’s in the proper position, you touch the fingers of your hand to your palm once more.  _"What?"_

“I mean… This is probably going to sound awful, but… Like… Could I just yell?”

" _You really don’t like sign language, do you?"_

“Not really.” At least John’s honest. You’ll give him that much. “The facial shit confuses me. But that wasn’t my question, Dave.”

" _The answer to your question is no."_  It doesn’t take you much looking to find the paper you’d received when you moved in. After all, it’s only been two days. You couldn’t have fucked up your room enough to lose it yet. After tapping your finger against a very specific portion of text, you hand it over.

John nods slowly.

And, as if summoned by the commentary, there’s a knock on the door.

You scramble to your feet and throw it open.

As Karkat steps into your room, you notice him fiddling with his tie. By the time he’s a yard past the threshold, he’s undone it. ( _Can I use your sink?_ )

" _T_ _hat’s an odd greeting."_  You grin.

He grimaces. " _Just let me use your sink, you fucking asshole. I need to get this bloodstain out of my jacket."_  Without waiting for any sort of answer, he shoves you aside. He removes his jacket and pulls a washcloth from his bag. After applying a sizable glob of soap and wetting it, he begins scrubbing.

John, meanwhile, looks at you with what can aptly be described as absolute bewilderment. “What just happened?”

To refer to Karkat, you simply point to him. " _He’s washing out the bloodstain. Remember? He got punched in the face by HB."_  Your sign for HB is something of your own making. Your middle and index fingers point forward, forming an “H,” and you simply point at your butt. As you point, you shift your hand to form a “B,” holding it flat, your thumb slightly bent. To be honest, you’re quite proud of your achievement.

And, presumably, Karkat sees your gesture in the mirror. He pins his jacket in place with his knee to respond. " _Huge bastard. That’s what the letters stand for."_

“That’s pretty harsh,” John quietly mutters. “I mean… If you hadn’t shown up late…”

You freeze and do your best to not let the feeling of shock that’s ruminating in the pit of your stomach show itself on your face. _Did John actually just say that or…?_ Sure, you’ve always known that your dear friend isn’t the most socially tactful person. Hell, neither are you. But you’d have the common sense to imply that being punched in the face is anyone’s fault beyond the puncher’s.

Instead, with as calm of a visage as possible, you sign a reply. " _If HB hadn’t punched him, then the problem wouldn’t exist."_  

“Fwoosh,” the sound escapes you without your input. It just happens, though you appreciate its value in adding to your next comment. " _Gone. Vanished. Fucking disappeared. Done."_

“Well…” John shrugs. He then wisely cuts the discussion off there.

_"Who's the dork?"_

Now, it’s your turn to laugh.

John gets to answering before you can. He spells his name and offers the sign you’d given him when you were both in first grade. The little finger of his right hand forms a “J” in the air, and he proceeds to trace the outline of his glasses. He then elaborates on how you’d met at public school.

From this, Karkat draws a simple conclusion. He nods.  _"So you're not Deaf?"_

“Nope.” John shrugs. His face takes on a familiar, pained expression. You’ve come to recognize it as discomfort. He’s told you about that discomfort, too, noting that you’re the only culturally Deaf person he’s ever actually interacted with. So, when he meets others, he’s admitted to being more than a bit uneasy.

And, if you’re being honest, you’re not so sure he’s really the greatest guy to be dragging along to meetups and socials. In fact, you’ve still got a chip on your shoulder from that one time he unintentionally murdered your chances of hooking up with a really hot girl in middle school. As if to further confirm these suspicions, John proceeds to open his mouth. Or, rather, he moves his hands. Slowly. Awkwardly. His expressions aren’t exactly on par with anything more than reluctant compliance with textbook standards.

" _Do you speak at all or something like that? Your signing is different from Dave’s. And it’s confusing."_

You groan.

Karkat follows suit. Nonetheless, he pauses. His eyes wander, focusing on some nonspecific point above and to the left of him. When he speaks, it’s unsurprisingly loud, like everything else about him. His voice is flat and calculated; each sound is its own entity. “Yeah. Kind of… I fucking guess…”

Funny enough, his favorite sign carries over, into his voice. “Fuck” is spoken clearly. Perfectly. It seems to slide off his tongue like an over-oiled robot would slide off of a rolling platform going up a hill.

“Oh.” John, too, pauses. His brows furrow. “That’s neat.”

_Jesus fuck. Here comes John fucking clueless Egbert._

“No. It sucked. It fucking sucked.” Karkat rolls his eyes. He dunks his jacket sleeve into the sink. The action is aggressive and violent and, if anything, it looks like he’s forcing someone’s head underwater. “I only learned because my parents made me.”

" _You should probably go."_  Though you offer a look of sympathy, you’re mildly annoyed with John. Not that you’ve never been angry at him before; he’s human. He’s made mistakes. But, of his mistakes, this one is damned huge.

And, as it stands, he agrees. At the very least, he seems to. He nods and quickly exits the room. Since he lives next door to you, however, the door closes quickly.

You turn your attentions to Karkat. ( _Sorry about John. He can be kind of out there._ )

" _I can tell."_  Karkat punctuates this with a surprisingly quiet sigh.

" _How much did you learn?"_  With that said, you quickly tag something else on. " _You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to."_

He shrugs. " _We’re already on the topic. I learned enough. I probably pass for coherent."_

" _You make more sense than I do."_  To emphasize your point, you offer a small smirk.

The commentary doesn’t go unnoticed. He snickers. " _Whatever, you annoying fuck."_

" _If I’m annoying, why did you come to my room?"_  You quirk your brows to indicate that your statement is a question.

He furrows his to show the emotion behind his words. " _Because I have nothing better to do. And I bet you don’t either."_  By now, he seems to have given up on getting the stain out of his suit jacket. He’s simply draped it over his arm and is letting the wet fabric soak through the pressed white cotton of his shirt. In fact, it’s been like this for a while; you’re just noticing it now. _"L_ _et me guess. They assigned you an interpreter?"_

 _"Yeah."_  Funny enough, you ended up getting assigned to a woman named Rose Lalonde. Also known as one of your cousins. To signify her name, you touch an “R” handshape to your forehead and flick the fingers out and up, stopping when they point upwards.  _"You?"_

After spelling the name, Kanaya, his left hand forms a “K.” He touches the tip of his middle finger to his flattened right palm and makes a scribbling motion on it, much like the sign for writing. He then continues… ( _I guess they’re trying to “fix” us._ ) He emphasizes the word with a roll of his eyes and a look of complete insincerity. His sticks his tongue out slightly and blows a short raspberry.

_"Probably."_

" _I’m going to guess you’d sound like an annoying douchebag."_  Karkat adds a small, enigmatic smile to the end of his comment.

You return with the same expression. " _You sound like a loud, angry asshole."_

" _Because I am angry. Life is shit."_  Karkat huffs. He folds his arms across his chest and rolls his eyes, allowing them to stop when they’re pointing towards the ceiling. A string of mostly independent noises escapes him, though you make out a distinctive “fuck.” After a while, he glances at you. " _I’m going. I’ve had enough douchebag to last me a lifetime."_

( _Fair enough._ ) You offer a short wave, something similar to what he’d departed with yesterday, and watch as he shuffles out of your room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> _come on and slam and welcome to the sexually confused and flirtatious jam_ also comments and feedback are always welcome


	5. With the taste of dust in your mouth all day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[**with the taste of dust in your mouth all day** / but no need to know](http://www.metrolyrics.com/i-dont-do-sadness-lyrics-spring-awakening.html)_ [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRMw1Axvwxg)]

You meet Rose in person for the first time at lunch.

In the grander scheme of things, you’ve known her for a while. You were internet friends when you were younger and, after moving to Texas, she’d been in your school. She’s four years your senior, though, so you never really got to know her. All you’re certain of is that she’s coincidentally dating Karkat’s interpreter, Kanaya.

_Because, obviously, you’ve only got normal names and completely off-the-wall names around here._

As far as you’re concerned, she knows that you can hear. Moreover, you’re only getting assigned an interpreter because the school doesn’t really give a damn about being more accommodating. If you had a say in this, you’d turn down the offer. You’ve lived like this forever, and you’ve adopted your own ways to get your message across. Usually, it’s scribbling notes back and forth. Tedious? Yes. Annoying? Definitely. Necessary? Absolutely.

Physically, she’s definitely in the Strider gene pool. She’s got the same pale skin and golden-blond hair. A pink headband seems to act as little more than an accessory, and her lips are accented by light pink lipstick. Soft purple eyeshadow emphasizes her eyes, which just so happen to be an odd sort of violet.

Now, however, it’s a good two hours past lunchtime. You’re currently stuck in a mandatory Proper Citizenship course, and the teacher is comparable to the lovechild of Umbridge and Effie. A suspiciously cheerful, toad-like woman.

For the past hour, she’s been going on and on about clear communication and proper stewardship. She’s been spewing bullshit about how a good citizen always obeys and respects their authority. How the word of anyone older than the individual is to be taken as some sort of wisdom passed down by time itself.

Looking at Rose, you find that she’s just about as interested in being here are you are. She’s covered three pages of notebook paper with random doodles. Pen sketches of random things around the room. They’re not exactly the work of a master artist, but they’re not the worst you’ve seen.

On the other side of you is Karkat. Both of you ended up getting seated next to each other. Something about making sure you had a support system. His notebook page is also filled with drawings, though his are more detailed. From what you can see, he’s big into portraiture. As of now, he’s absentmindedly doodling a visage in the likeness of yours.

And, obviously, you can’t help but comment. You nudge him on the shoulder and, when his eyes are on you, sign your commentary beneath the table. " _I think you’re missing the majestic jawline._ "

He rolls his eyes. " _I think you need to shut the fuck up before we both get our asses kicked._ "

" _We’re not making any noise._ " You shrug. " _Where’d you learn to draw like that?_ "

There’s a pause. Perhaps he’s taking a moment to weigh the consequences of responding to your inquiry; ultimately, he divulges his secrets. Rather than sign an answer, he scribbles it in the upper corner of his notebook page. He writes in tight, small letters. All uppercase. " _I wanted to be one of those people who drew faces for police. Didn’t work out well. Apparently, being Deaf is a problem with the job._ "

You, in return, write your answer on your own sheet of paper. Unlike his handwriting, yours is wide and loose. It’s all lowercase, and the ink is bright red. " _Everything is a problem._ "

" _Well aren’t you a fucking pessimist?_ " He flashes you a brief smirk before glancing upwards, to the teacher. He quickly adds to his reply. " _Teacher’s coming this way. Flip your page._ "

You only have a second or so. But, you manage to get your notebook onto a blank page. You scribble some incoherent shit about responsibility, watching as the professor passes without comment. A sigh of relief escapes you. In the margins, sandwiched between your own malarkey about being a good citizen, you scratch out a note for the grumpy asshole sitting next to you. " _You saved my ass. My hero._ "

" _How about I rip out this useless hunk of metal in the side of my head and shove it up your ass? Will that shut you up?_ " For someone with such consistent, neat handwriting, he can put words out at an alarming rate. Then again, you suppose that’s to be expected.

Beyond that, you have a more pressing issue to attend to right now. After making sure that the professor is occupied, you write. " _I’m not big on butt stuff. What hunk of metal?_ "

He sweeps some of his thick hair aside, revealing an empty port just above the ear that’s facing you. From what you know, you’re guessing it’s the remnants of a long-forgotten cochlear implant. And, when you read his reply, your expectations are confirmed. " _Old CI. My parents made me get it. All it ever did was give me headaches straight from Satan’s asshole, so I dumped it._ "

" _Makes sense._ " Behind you, there’s the sound of shoes clicking against a hardwood floor. You return the favor. " _Here comes Professor Drone 2._ "

He bites his lip and lets forth a loud noise. Something that’s an odd cross between a sneeze and a stifled laugh. When the professor’s attention is drawn, he simply buries himself in his wholly useless fake notes. When she passes, he allows himself to relax. The smallest of smiles tugs at the edges of his lips.

And, for some reason, it makes your stomach flip. Not in a barf-express-coming-through way. No, it’s more of a fluttering. A pleasant lifting sensation. You feel lightheaded and, for a moment, you wonder what his hair feels like.

_Is it soft or rough? Is that thickness like unprocessed wool or freshly fallen snow or a plush blanket? Does it smell like him—like that odd, oaky scent that he leaves behind in the bathroom?_

A yardstick smacks against your notebook, its edge landing only inches away from your hand. You look up, meet the teacher’s gaze, and offer a sheepish smile.

“Daydreaming is a waste of productive time. If you want to leave here, you will cease engaging in such frivolous fantasies at once.”

_Well. She’s got alliteration down._

You nod slowly and watch as she walks away.

Karkat snickers. He swiftly jots down something and taps the end of his pen against his paper. " _How’s your interpreter?_ "

" _Rose?_ " You glance towards her, though it seems that she’s paying about as much attention to her surroundings as you are. In fact, she seems to be asleep. " _I already knew her. She’s fine. You?_ "

When he looks at his interpreter, you follow his gaze.

Kanaya’s fairly tall. You’re guessing that she’d be a good half a foot taller than you when she stands. Dark brown skin, green eyes, and short, natural hair. Beyond an odd shade of green lipstick, she doesn’t seem to have as much interest as Rose does when it comes to makeup.

By the time your eyes return to the paper, there’s already a full response. " _Cool enough. I think our interpreters are dating. Fucking weird._ "

" _Definitely. I’d rather eat horse shit than date you._ " You shrug and note the odd look on his face as he reads this. You’re not too sure what it is. Confusion? Disappointment? Annoyance? It’s too subtle to tell.

And, before you get a chance to really analyze it, his face returns to its neutral position. Brows furrowed. Lips curved into a small, ever-present frown. " _I’d rather chop off my own hands than date you._ "

" _So the hatred is mutual?_ "

" _Definitely._ " To emphasize his point, Karkat drops his pen. As it clatters onto the table, he leans back and folds his arms across his chest. He tilts his chair back a bit, only to be reprimanded with a yardstick to the back of the head. His natural reaction is to make a loud exclamation of his favorite four-letter “F” word.

“You and Dave have been nothing but rude and inattentive this entire class, Karkat,” the teacher scolds, “Both of you now owe me a joint paper on the benefits of responsible citizenship. Five pages. Single spaced. Due in two weeks.”

A quiet groan from Karkat serves as his response. His hands move, and Kanaya translates.

“I have to work with him?”

“Teamwork is a key aspect of being a responsible adult,” the professor says.

Karkat sighs.

You follow suit.

For a brief moment, you exchange glances. Looks of holy-fucking-shit-what-did-we-do.

And, at this moment, you feel that sensation again. That fluttering. That strange sense of freedom. Your pulse races. The edges of your vision seem to blur, until you’re looking primarily at him. And, as soon as it begins, you put an abrupt end to it. You bite your lip, stopping only when you’re met with the metallic taste of blood.

You can’t afford to be anything but straight.

Not now.

Not while you still have to live with that jackass you call a brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **commentary and feedback are always welcome and appreciated**


	6. A shadow passed, a shadow passed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[**a shadow passed, a shadow passed** / yearning, yearning](http://www.metrolyrics.com/left-behind-lyrics-spring-awakening.html)_ [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBX6Rvd831c)]

" _Are we really getting stuck with this?_ " Karkat sighs. He runs his fingers through his hair, causing strands to stick out even more than usual. At this point in time, he’s sitting next to you. Some random campus health “professional” is studying both of you. One professional bullshitter per person. Right now, you’re both supposed to be getting so-called evaluations.

For you, they’re going to do the impossible. They aim to determine something that umpteen doctors, many of whom have enough experience to diagnose someone while blindfolded and in a different fucking state, have yet to do.

“Profound deafness. Mediocre verbal skills.” One of the two clinicians announces the result of his evaluation of Karkat. “I recommend transfer to the school’s special care wing.”

In return, the clinician working on you announces his findings. “I’m thinking this one is just plain stupid. Seems to know sign language, though.”

" _Fuck you._ " You hold your middle finger up at your clinician.

The response you get is a gross, gurgling laugh. “Maybe they are letting animals into the school. I seem to have gotten a monkey.”

Truly, you are in college-jail. You’ve decided this officially. Right now.

You see a glint of white. The tip of a needle reflecting the pulsating fluorescent light.

 

* * *

 

When you wake up, you’re in an iron frame bed. The lights are too bright for you, and your head is pounding. Next to you, there’s a consistent rattling. When you turn to look, you find Karkat in a similar bed. His hands are tied to the sides of the bed with leather straps. A beaten up, bright red device sticks out amidst his messy black hair. Judging by the name scrawled crudely across its surface, it’s his old sound processor.

Nonetheless, you speak up. You want to make sure your assumption is correct. You vocalize, making a wholly unintelligible but loud sound.

He responds with a pained groan. Since his wrists are secured to the side of the bed, he answers aloud. His voice is slightly clearer than usual, but not entirely what would be considered “normal.” Not by any stretch of the imagination. He still skips over softer sounds. He excels at are those that you feel when you speak—hard, throaty, or more involved sounds. “Did you just wake up?”

You nod.

He grimaces. “I’ve been awake for… minutes… um… No. An hour. Yeah. It’s been a fucking hour.”

" _And you’re strapped to the bed because?_ "

“Because I tried to take this fucking piece of shit off.” Though he doesn’t explicitly say it, you know what he’s talking about. His gaze points in the implant processor’s direction. “What the hell is this? Some sort of fucking prison?”

You hold your fist up and bend it at the wrist, causing it to move like a nodding head. " _Yes._ "

“Just so you know, the monitoring devices double as shock anklets.”

" _Really?_ " As you answer, you glance at the black plastic band around your ankle. You stare at the pulsating red light on the side. " _They must really trust us._ "

“Get me out of this thing… S…” He hesitates. His gaze wanders and, after a while, he hesitantly continues. “Strider,” he pronounces it roughly, seemingly committing the order of the sounds to memory, “Take the fucking things off.”

" _I’m coming. Jesus Christ._ " You slide out of your bed and quietly approach his. Undoing the straps doesn’t take much effort. They’re little more than tiny belts. Tug at the buckle and unlatch the hook. When you’re done, you throw both straps through the partially opened window. As he rubs his raw wrists, you begin to sign. " _You could just take it off._ "

He frowns. With his hands free, he returns to the language he’s more comfortable with. " _I’ve had enough electrocution for one day. Thanks for the suggestion._ " He presses the tip of his thumb to his temple and massages it, keeping his eyes half-closed as he does so. Still, his gaze is focused on you. As if to encourage you to continue, he nods.

" _You must really hate that thing, then._ " You quirk your brow. Though you’re not really asking a question, you’re expecting some sort of answer.

And he provides it. In his usual fashion, his expression is indicative of his tone. In your mind, what he’s conveying comes across as something rougher and more aggressive than it literally is. " _It’s a fucking nightmare. You want to try? I’ll drill a fucking hole in your skull and shove a fucking magnet into it. And then you’ll get to experience the wonderful world of complete overstimulation and bullshit background noise._ "

“Hm.” The sound escapes you quickly. It’s left you before you have the chance to stop it. " _Tell me how you really feel._ "

A look of confusion crosses Karkat’s face. His brows furrow and, as he sits up, his shoulders droop a bit. " _You’re not going to yell at me for not appreciating advanced, expensive technology?_ "

" _Hell no._ " You roll your eyes. " _My Bro flung a whole lot of shit at me to fix me. It’s all worthless._ "

He nods slowly. " _You’re actually right for once. Congratulations._ " Strangely enough, a small smile flashes across his face. It disappears as quickly as it came, though. " _Let’s just say I didn’t want this. I told my parents that, and they gave me bullshit about how I’d have this whole new world to explore or whatever._ "

" _And instead?_ "

He pauses. When he continues, he does so with a good deal of hesitation. It takes him a few moments to get a decent start. After some aimless hand wringing, however, he tells his story. " _We moved to Skaia because I got kicked out of my old school. No one really wanted the kid with the CI at the Deaf school… If that makes sense. We were told that Skaia was this wonderful, accepting utopia. That’s turned out fucking wonderfully, hasn’t it?_ "

" _Same._ " You shrug. " _No school would take me, and there weren’t any legitimate places for me to go. My brother might have been a useless fuck, but he got me an education._ " Here, you pause. For a brief moment, you consider your own words. Then, you add to them. " _Kind of._ "

" _I hate to even fucking suggest it, but we might not be that far apart, Strider._ " A grimace and a soft growl emphasizes Karkat’s point. " _That doesn’t mean we’re friends._ "

" _Of course not._ " For some reason, you smirk.

Yet, at the same time, there’s a piece of you that’s disappointed.

For once, you’ve found someone in this shitty experimental place that you can connect to directly. Someone you don’t need to pass notes to or use an interpreter for. As much as you’re determined to keep him out of your personal circle of friends, you can’t help but feel like you have something in common with him. You know part of his world, and he knows part of yours. And, the more you think about it, the more those two worlds overlap. The more they intersect.

In a way, he’s like some sort of lifeline. He reminds you that you exist. That you’re not some sort of random statistical outlier or a faulty product. And, to realize that he’s truly intent upon keeping his life separate from yours is more than a little bit of a letdown.

Not that you’re going let that show.

No, you offer him a shrug. An indifferent smirk and a cockily signed retort. " _I don’t need you anyhow, asshole._ " Then, you turn on your heel and head for the door. You keep your cool until you’ve passed the front counter and locked yourself in your room. Only then do you allow yourself to relax enough to consider the situation.

You don’t cry, though.

Emotions are, as Bro has taught you, irrelevant. They’re useless, and you don’t need them.

Right?


	7. And yet I wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**and yet i wait** / the swallow brings_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-song-of-purple-summer-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hl4ZsWVUCro)]

It’s Saturday.

The first Saturday at the jail-college hybrid.

Not surprisingly, the day has been nothing but mandatory volunteering sessions. You were sent to work at the local grocery store, where at least sixteen people asked if you were insert-something-derrogitory-here, for three hours. After punching some smug teenage bastard who wanted to know if you were competent enough to pass a basic test, you were transferred to working with the local hospital.

The tasks were less traditional volunteering and more free labor. In fact, it seems to you as if everyone in this town is in on the idea. As if everyone here has bought into and is working alongside the correctional college.

Now, though, it’s roughly half an hour past midnight.

You, being reckless and without much regard for the system as a whole, have managed to break out of your room. Amazingly, you avoided triggering the alarms, too.

It was surprisingly simple. Pick the lock on the window, open it, and jump. You’re only on the first floor, so there’s no real fall.

Now, you’re staying under the radar. Well… You’re trying to. There’s only so much you can do without giving yourself away. Though, as whole, you’re guessing that the townsfolk don’t know much about the college's students. They do, however, have a pretty decent, albeit aesthetically disgusting musical hangout. On the surface, it’s a modern catastrophe. Sure, it’s acoustically sound, but it’s awful to look at. Big, blocky, and plain. Everything that, in your opinion, a theater or entertainment venue should strive to _not_ be.

Overlooking the outer ugliness, the inside is…

Actually.

No. The inside is just as fucking ugly. You’d rip out your own eyes if you didn’t like being able to silently mock the place’s aesthetic so damned much. It’s the ungodly and unwanted lovechild of the general feel of those ass-chafing and back-breaking Wassily chairs, retro-futurism, 50’s furniture, and cubism. The walls are little more than colorful squares and rectangles of considerable size. Quite frankly, the ceiling lamps look like nipples with lights mounted on the inside.

Looking around, there are a few kids from the school. Some random seniors and that one guy in clown makeup. And, somehow, directly in front of the stage, there's _him_.

Somehow, he’s managed to get his implant off. He leans back in his chair with his arms folded, and his foot tapping to the bass-heavy rhythm of the standard-issue rock music. A half-eaten Reuben sits atop his table.

Naturally, you’re curious.

How the hell did he get out?

More importantly, why the fuck do you keep running into him?

You act upon this burning confusion in your stomach and take the seat across from him. After the song finishes, you reach across the table and nudge his shoulder.

After letting a loud exclamation of “fuck” fly, he glares at you. " _What the fuck are you doing here?_ " A growl emphasizes his point and, when your answer fails to arrive within the next second, he adds onto this. He holds his hands, both in a relaxed but flattened position, on either side of his head. The motion begins a few inches in front of his face and ends after swiftly moving his hands inwards, so that they frame either side of his head. " _Pay attention._ "

You groan. Clearly, this was not the best time. And, in retrospect, you’re now aware that you’ve completely thrown this asshole for a loop. Sure, he’s not someone you really feel like you’d want to be friends with—he’s loud, abrasive, and annoying—but, it’s not your fault that you keep crossing paths. " _What’re you doing here?_ "

In the most dramatic way possible, he rolls his eyes. Both of his hands move until they’re at chest level and flattened. His left hand moves counterclockwise and his right does the opposite. He then continues in his standard, angry fashion—hands moving with unparalleled speed and passion. " _Enjoying music. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?_ " At the end of this, he offers you a verbal exclamation of his favored word.

" _Shit._ " You frown. Sure, you were expecting something rash; this, though, was rough. " _Just asking. How’d you get out?_ "

" _I murdered every guard on campus with sign language. If you believe in yourself enough, even a finger gun can kill someone._ " The way he signs this is ambiguous. His brows remains furrowed, his jaw set. From what you can ascertain, however, he’s not being serious. At the very least, you hadn’t seen enough dead guards to confirm his claim.

“Hmph.” The sound comes from your throat. It’s rough on your ears, and you instinctively cringe. Nonetheless, you continue. Just for shits and giggles, you take his story at face value. " _Amazing. I’m going to go tell everyone at the cemetery to wake up and wait for the zombie invasion._ "

Karkat wrinkles his nose. He waves his hand dismissively in the air and declares his disinterest with a loud huff. In a show of a more morbid and possibly concerning side of himself, he mimes the action of tying a noose, only clarifying afterwards. " _I’d rather fucking die than have to deal with you right now, Strider._ "

" _Tell me how you really feel._ " With this, you stop. You pull out your phone and scroll through some old photos. Random, hipster-blog-worthy snapshots of random things. A pair of discarded and torn-up shoes. Broken bottles in an otherwise pristine park. A roadside memorial whose creators have long since forgotten it. The burnt shell of an old stone church.

After a while, he nudges your shoulder. " _You’re a fucking hipster._ "

“Uh-huh.” You vocalize this as you sign it, ending your wrist so that your outward-facing fist bobs like a nodding head. " _Do you have a point? Are you just trying to strike up a conversation?_ "

By now, the music has shifted. It’s more tenor-focused, and the bass is minimal. In fact, even you—someone who studies music and wants to work with it for a living—can’t pick up on any sort of discernable bassline.

" _The music sucks now. I want the other guy back._ " A deep, guttural growl escapes Karkat. He folds his arms across his chest and taps his fingers atop the beaten wood table. At the same time, he eyes his now-cold Reuben. Ultimately, he decides against continuing to eat it. Considering the fact that there’s a practical fly orgy happening on top, you don’t think this is an unreasonable plan. " _They’re playing music, right?_ "

You, meanwhile, glance at the guitarist on stage. " _Yeah._ " You repeat the sign from before. " _So, what, are you using residual hearing or something?_ "

" _Yes. I, the Deaf asshole, am listening to music._ " He rolls his eyes, though you swear you see a small smile creep across his face. " _I pick up on vibrations. Live concerts with big crowds are pretty cool too._ "

You commit this to memory. For some reason, you feel as if this knowledge might be useful in the future. " _Reasonable enough._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally didn't even reread this at all so if you find any typos feel free to point them out  
> suggestions for future chapters, comments, feedback, and all that are all wonderful and appreciated


	8. Wanna bundle up into some big ass lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _disappear, yeah, well, you wanna try / **wanna bundle up into some big ass lie**_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/totally-fucked-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSOYR2uh3Iw)]

Despite the shit that is this thinly-veiled jail, you at least get Sundays off. All day. Everyone is released and allowed to gallivant around town as they fucking please. Go where they want. Do what they want.

Of course, there are caveats. If anyone is revealed to have done something illegal, so-called “unspeakable things” will happen. You’ve heard the rumors. People came back with a few dollars’ worth of weed and were never seen again. Police turned over some underage drunk and his bloodied clothing was found buried on campus grounds. Going out of Skaia is also forbidden. That, however, isn’t surprising. You were warned the minute you were outfitted with your yearlong tracking anklet. Leaving the town will result in anything from an extremely painful to, allegedly, even fatal electric shocks.

Now, though, your main focus is the hideout you scoped out.

You found it last night. On your way back to the dormitory, you’d spotted it. A little, beaten up, and probably asbestos-filled house that, by all appearances, has been abandoned for at least a decade. In the darkness of that night, you couldn’t see much. You could make out some broken windows, a rusty private property sign, and some dead birds in the overgrown lawn. The chain link fence around the home was clearly low and falling apart.

And, today, you’ve confirmed your first suspicion.

Getting in was easy as hell.

Kick some of the rusted fence out of place. Crawl through, get a scrape on your shoulder for your efforts. A memento of your journey, perhaps. Inside, the place is as ratty as you’d expect it to be. The old, floral wallpaper in every room is peeling. Ransacked furniture is scattered everywhere. Skeletal wooden remains tossed about like trash. Broken light fixtures are strewn out on the ground, and an old chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

It’s a lot bigger inside. And, actually, it’s rather nice. Though part of the roof has collapsed, it’s actually still fairly isolated from the outside world. The fake wooden door has remained in place and the windows are all boarded up. So, then, you have privacy.

And privacy is exactly what you need right now.

You clear off a spot on the ground, moving some of the old wood to make a spot to sit. After all, you don’t want any bugs crawling up your ass. _No one wants bugs crawling up their ass. Ever._ When this matter is settled, you sit down and pull out your beaten-up notebook of random musical compositions.

At the school, this is what has been branded COIC, or a Creative Outlet or Individualistic Commodity. In fact, anything artistic that isn’t provided and supervised by the school is known as such. And all of it is banned. Musical instruments. Personal sketchbooks. Any stray notebooks of doodling or poetry. All of it is contraband, and, if found, all of it has one of two fates. The first is the most common. The item is confiscated and tossed into the bulletproof glass display of the so-called “Dangers of Daydreaming.” If, however, the item in question is too individualistic or out of the ordinary, it’ll be publically burned in the fire pit by the campus social commons.

_Truly, this is some sort of Orwellian clusterfuck of a place._

In this space, however, you don’t have to worry about any of that. You’re alone. You’re alone, and only the whisper of the wind accompanies your thoughts. Only the sounds of birds chirping and the occasional sight of a stray rodent disturb you.

It’s damned peaceful, and it’s the most solid sense of solitude that you’ve had since you arrived.

And, yet, it’s quickly broken.

There’s a loud crash. A thud from a nearby room.

Though your instinct is to run, your thoughts tell you to check on the noise. And, naturally, you do. You let curiosity get the best of you, and you creep towards what you can only assume was the former dining room. There, you find someone familiar. You find Karkat.

He’s sprawled out atop a pile of debris. Judging by the fresh hole in the ceiling, he’s just experienced what you might call a down-to-earth moment. Or, more appropriately, he’s fallen ass-first through a rotted-out floor.

" _What the fuck are you doing here, Strider?_ " He flashes you a look of befuddled rage. If looks could kill, you’d be dead. Very confused, of course, but also very dead. Incredibly dead. Your soul would be descending to the hell where you belong.

And, likewise, so is your confidence. Normally, you’d be cool with this. You’d glide this through everything else in life. But, right now, there’s something about that look. It’s intimidating. And the sharp, robotic way his hands move isn’t any more comforting.

" _Strider. What the fuck?_ " As if it will make you answer faster, he growls.

You answer slowly. " _I heard a noise. What did you expect me to do?_ "

Karkat frowns. His brows furrow as his hands move. " _Run like a frightened deer?_ "

" _I’m a Strider._ " For the sake of convenience, you steal the sign he invented. After all, it’s easier to do a few swift motions than to fingerspell your name. " _I don’t run from things. I run to things._ " To emphasize your point, you smirk. You make your motions more deliberate and precise.

He, in return, eyes you over. His left hand forms a “V” and he taps the back of the hand against his forehead. " _Stupid._ "

" _Thanks_." You sign this loosely, offering a roll of your eyes as you do so. You hope that this conveys the nonchalant nature of the comment—the insincerity and mild disinterest—though, really, you don’t care if this nuance doesn’t go through. You continue. " _What’re you doing here?_ "

" _I was meditating. Why does that fucking matter?_ "

Honestly, this response surprises you. There’s nothing to indicate that he’s being insincere. Still, you can’t see it. You can’t see your loud, boisterous, headstrong roommate doing anything that involves being calm, much less meditating. " _You? Meditating?_ "

" _It’s calming. Fuck you._ " With his hand position off to the side and at roughly shoulder-height, he makes a swift, decisive motion. The flattened fingers of his hand close, touching his thumb. " _Leave me alone._ "

" _You’re not really the most pleasant person, are you?_ " You frown.

He responds in what, after some thought, you can only assume is a natural way. " _And you’re about as real as artificially flavored shit._ " As he continues, his eyes narrow. His gaze focuses on you, piercing through you with all the ease of a butter knife stabbing through brick. " _You’re obvious as hell. You’re nothing more than a living, breathing caricature of toxic masculinity._ "

You shrug. Somewhere, deep down, you feel a pang of… something. Offense? Realization? You’re not sure what it is, but you know that the overwhelming majority of you is feeling nothing but upright contempt.

How dare this asshole—someone who barely knows you—insult you? Insult your character? Sure, you insulted him first, but that’s beside the point.

Your hands move swiftly. " _You’re not exactly a breath of fresh air, either. I’ve met murderers more pleasant than you. Fuck you. I’m finding somewhere else to be alone._ "

" _Good. I hope you’re far, far away from here._ " He rolls his eyes, folds his arms across his chest, and lets forth a long, heavy sigh.

You, meanwhile, remain true to your word. You turn on your heel and purposefully exit the run-down building you’d formerly sought refuge in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and feedback are always welcome and appreciated because i never really check what i post


	9. A wail through the willows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**a wail through the willows** / all hollow through the willows_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/there-once-was-a-pirate-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Brp6H3_zMr4)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  ~~the hills are alive with the sound of wailing willows~~  
> 

“And… You’re telling me that you want to switch suitemates?”

After exchanging glances with Karkat, you nod. He, too, nods. Both events occur simultaneously.

HB, meanwhile, glares at both of you. His beady eyes focus on you, then Karkat. Karkat, then you. Back and forth. Constantly. And he, in his usual, grating voice, slowly explains himself. Behind that voice is that disgusting, condescending tone. “I’m not authorized to separate either of you as roommates. Beyond that, it’s unethical for me to do so.”

Karkat offers a loud, disgruntled huff. His hands move, and Kanaya speaks. You notice, however, that she censors Karkat’s commentary. “How is this unethical? What’s unethical is making me share anything with…” She hesitates as his motions form a string of profanity. When he resumes normal conversation, she continues. “This inconsiderate… jerk.”

“That’s not what I fucking said,” bellows Karkat.

Kanaya buries her face in her hands.

Rose, meanwhile, responds with a quiet snicker of laughter.

When HB speaks, Kanaya is forced to translate, which ends her dramatic show of disapproval. “It’s unethical because all… um… _special_ students are grouped together. And, unfortunately for you, Dave is the only other person on campus who knows how to do those… hand… things.”

“It’s called sign language, you useless fuck,” Rose interprets your incredibly important interjection.

Kanaya rolls her eyes.

They might be dating and/or married, but the way they interpret is truly something that they both disagree on. Kanaya is more respectful of the general appropriateness of her words; Rose, however, simply says what’s being signed. As has been evidenced.

Naturally, HB responds by smacking you on the head with his yardstick.

_Those damned yardsticks. Are they standard issue here? Some sort of fucking awful piece of required equipment for all staff? Do they choose their own?_

“Well, then, you both need to learn something about respect…” HB frowns.

You groan. Against your personal code of conduct, you vocalize. A string of mostly random noises, but you make a point of ensuring that they sound as aggressive as possible.

To your frustration, however, HB simply laughs. “I see why you don’t talk, kid. You sound like an absolute idiot.”

“Every time you open your shitty little mouth, you sound like an asshole.” For once, Kanaya’s words are exactly as Karkat intended them.

By the time you’ve turned your attentions to him, he’s folded his arms across his chest. His brows are furrowed and his jaw set.

“Whatever. Both of you need to get the hell out of my apartment.”

You roll your eyes and do as instructed. Karkat takes your lead, though you can tell that he does so reluctantly. As far as you can tell, it seems as if he figures that the consequences aren’t worth it. As you leave, however, you make sure to make one last jab at the room. As she is paid to do, Rose vocalizes your statement. “Wassily chairs are ugly as fuck and bad for your ass.”

“GET OUT OF MY APARTMENT.”

 

* * *

 

Despite the fact that you established a mutual hatred between yourself and Karkat yesterday, you’ve both ended up in his room. Somehow. You’re sprawled out on his floor, and he’s sitting atop his bed.

Now, admittedly, you appreciate his taste. He tends towards loose but harmonious blend of styles. The items which decorate his walls vary from family photos to posters for an assortment of Broadway musicals and stage plays. And, of course, there’s the fancy blanket.

" _How the hell do you know anything about Wassily chairs?_ " His sign is loose and quick, and he glosses over the letters of the chair’s name. Letter forms are combined and others are dropped, though the beginning and ending letters are clear. " _I thought you were a music person._ "

You raise your brows and offer a sort of “what” movement. You extend your hands, holding them palms-up in front of you, and shrug a bit. " _So?_ " From here, you continue. " _Everyone says I can’t do music because I can’t talk._ "

" _Why the hell would you need to talk to get into music?_ " Karkat rolls his eyes.

You offer a small smirk. " _I’m big on lyrics and all that. My dream as a kid was to make my own band. I play guitar, piano, and double bass._ "

" _Double bass?_ " Karkat, too, smirks. He raises his brow and points at you, his expression practically screaming his unabashed skepticism. " _You?_ "

And, really, you can see where he’s coming from. Sure, you’re tall, but double basses are fucking huge. They're the elephants of stringed instruments. Massive, annoying, and generally ignored. You hold your hands with the palms facing you and fingers in the “X” shape. You then tap the flattened middle digit of your index fingers together twice, then mime the motion of playing. " _Electric bass._ "

Karkat scoffs. " _I’m a drummer._ " As he continues, his facial expression changes. There’s an insincere smile on his face and an odd curve formed by his brows. His eyes point upwards, completing look. " _Let’s form a fucking band. One Deaf kid and the asshole who can’t talk. I’m sure we’ll be a hit._ "

Of course, he’s being sarcastic. His face says that. No. His face screams that. Yet, you can’t help but give the idea some serious consideration. After all, it’s not as if your entire life is riding on your income right now. Hell, they confiscate all of your cash when you arrive and ration it out, doling out a mere $100 to each student every Sunday. For “emergency situations and entertainment,” so they say.

Sure, he’s probably right. No one is about to flock to a club boasting a band of nobodies, but…

Your hand begins with the flattened palm facing inwards, the tips of your fingers at roughly the same level as your temple. From here, it makes a swift and short downwards motion, shifting to the “Y” shape, before it ends with a thumbs-up. " _Why not?_ "

" _Because you’re a fucking idiot and I hate you. I’d rather have bad river water eat away my fucking brain than spend time with you._ "

You shrug. " _That’s harsh._ "

" _It’s true._ " Here, however, Karkat pauses. His facial features relax, and his next statement is enough to surprise you. It’s impossible to know if he’s being serious, but you’ve got a gut feeling that he is. " _What would we call it?_ "

Your answer is swift, completely improvised, and pulled straight from your ass. Yet, you find that you’re rather fond of it. " _Band of Signs._ "

Again, Karkat’s response surprises you. A small smile crosses his face, and he nods. " _Not bad._ "

" _So, you’ll join?_ "

Again, he pauses. He chews on his lip and taps his fingers against his desk. After a few minutes of this, he lets forth a long sigh. " _Sure. But that doesn’t mean I think any higher of you. You’re still a puddle of piss on my doorstep._ "

" _Creative. I’m using puddle of piss on my doorstep as my next band._ " You waggle your brows as you sign this. Nonetheless, when you’re done, you shift back to a more serious expression. " _Isn’t this against school rules?_ "

" _Breathing is probably against school rules._ " Again, you can’t tell if he’s serious. Not that it really matters. " _We’ll discuss this later. For now, I’ve had enough of you. Just your presence is making the room stink of douchebag._ " With this, he waves his hand towards the door to the bathroom.

You, not wanting to piss off the reluctant asshole who’s inadvertently helped you check off a life goal, oblige. With a short and unreciprocated wave, you depart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> karkat, sarcastically: "lol what're you going to do form a fucking band?"   
>  dave, completely serious: "why the fuck not"
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  that's it that's the chapter  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>   
>    
>  also the naming of chapters might start to extend to include other musicals but i mean the theme is still deaf west spring awakening because dwsa is fucking awesome  
>    
> 


	10. To fabricate great works

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [ _in every age mankind attempts / **to fabricate great works**_ ](http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/titanicmusical/ineveryagereprisefinale.htm)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i say maybe because this is from the titanic musical oops

" _I’ve got us booked in two weeks at a local dive. The Shining Penny._ " You eye Karkat, trying to gauge his reaction. However, he’s impossible to discern. His jaw is set and his brows in their neutral, mildly furrowed position.

And, after a while, he slowly offers his commentary. " _That sounds seedy as fuck._ "

“Hmph.” The sound escapes you. You point to your forehead before moving so that both fingers point to him. Technically, you’re expressing that you agree with this thought. In your mind, you mean to say something along the lines of, ‘yeah, it is.’ After all, you’ve been there. It’s not the most idyllic club. It’s shoddy, and the building is falling apart. Nonetheless, it’s the only place that would take you.

He nods, as if to urge you to continue.

Naturally, you take the bait. " _I was thinking…_ "

" _That’s never good._ " He groans.

" _Trust me. We need stage personas._ " Your expression is as serious as you can possibly make it. Your lips are pressed together, forming a thin line, and your eyes narrowed. With this, you ensure that your idea is taken as something that’s purely for business. After all, you’re Dave Strider. The last person you’d ever date is your angry loser of a roommate. " _How about we make a thing of each other?_ "

“NO.” Karkat snaps aloud. He jabs his finger to your chest. “No. NO.”

" _Think about it. If we—_ "

He interjects. " _I would rather be fucking dead._ "

" _Bands with romantic relationships always do great. Think about it. There’s ABBA and… Give me a minute._ " You freeze and wring your hands together as you try to think of another example. When you fail to come up with one, you jump ahead of yourself. Ignore the pitfall of your failed attempt at logic and force the discussion onwards. " _It’s not real._ "

He frowns. Somehow, when his eyes wander, you see a hint of something. There’s the smallest glimmer of inspiration to him. A thoughtful tone underlays his random humming. Eventually, he slowly nods. " _Fine. But this isn’t for real. It never will be. You’re the equivalent of arsenic to me._ " He wrinkles his nose and taps his fingers against his desk.

This haphazard fidgeting, however, begins to morph into something more. There’s a steady beat. A consistent pattern. And you, without really thinking much of it, open your notebook. You jot down his creation and overlay something of your own. It’s a rough, unpolished tune. But, when you finish, it’s something.

_Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is short but shit is going to go dOWN


	11. Filling the darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _**filling the darkness** / with order and light_ ](http://www.metrolyrics.com/stars-lyrics-les-miserables.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZFIj8h0E36A)]

After the initial meeting, your suitemate straight up disappears. You see him pack his bags that night and, when you wake up, he’s gone. Poof! Nothing left of him. Karkat Vantas has left the campus. Completely. You don’t see him in class. Or even at the mandatory meal times.

And, somehow, you come to miss this. You miss seeing him at lunch, scowling at an empty plate. You even sort of miss his habit of leaving his ugly-as-hell red, fuzzy slippers in the bathroom after he showers. And, on that point, you don’t even see signs of life from him. There’s no used towel. No noises. It’s as if he dropped off the face of the planet.

A whole week passes.

Your curiosity is now on par with your distress. On a superficial level, you know you should be concerned the most for his wellbeing; you, however, care more about the gig. If he’s not back within the next few days, you’re both screwed. After all, a band failing to show to their first gig is a band that dies a swift, terribly death. And “the only other bandmate just fucking disappeared” is a pretty shitty excuse. In fact, you sincerely believe that it would be more productive to show up naked and let Google Translate read _There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly_ to the entire goddamned audience than to show up claiming the extraterrestrial abduction of your bandmate.

Then, suddenly, he reappears.

Or, at least, he shows up on campus.

You spot him smoking a contraband cigarette at the very edge of campus early in the morning. Later, you see him discussing something with Kanaya.

From there, though, you lose track of him.

The next time you’re aware of his presence ends up being late at night. Around 10:00, you’re pulled from your conscious procrastination—specifically, playing Fallout 4—by the sound of someone cursing as they attempt to unlock your door.

Figuring that getting murdered by some random asshole would at least make the school seem a little less like a beacon of civility, you don’t hesitate to respond. You open the door, and find yourself eye-to-eye with your confused suitemate.

" _You’re in my room._ " He signs this succinctly. With his left hand held off to the side, he touches the flattened fingers to his thumb. " _Leave._ "

" _I’m not in your room, asshole._ " Your response is a mixture of concern and amusement. After all, Karkat seems smart enough. How the hell would he confuse rooms? " _Your room is the one before this._ "

" _I count the doors._ " He frowns. There’s a brief moment where the edges of his lips curl downwards, as if he regrets pointing this out. However, he quickly forges onwards. " _This is my room._ "

" _Then you don’t know how to count._ " You snicker.

He, however, does something you don’t expect. He opens his mouth and, in his usual, thundering voice, exclaims, “It’s not fucking funny, Strider.”

_Shit._

Naturally, you realize that you’ve made a mistake. You’ve pissed off the raging bull. You’ve made the fat lady sing. You’ve tickled the sleeping dragon. Now, you’re about to get your ass turned to freshly mown grass.

" _Sorry._ " Your left hand forms a fist, the palm facing inwards. With this held to your chest, you move it in a clockwise circle a few times. " _Didn’t know that was a sore topic._ "

By now, you can hear HB moving around in his room. The locks on the door start clicking.

" _I’ve just spent the past week getting my eyeballs prodded like they’re alien eggs. I don’t need your goddamned sarcasm._ " When he’s finished, there’s that add moment of hesitation again. A small, slight frown—something that shows and disappears in less than a second. It’s brief, yes, but you’ve trained yourself to look for these things. You’ve spent your whole life communicating through expression and body language. There’s no way in hell something like this could slip past you. And, judging by the fact the he’s starting to wring his hands together, it seems that he’s aware of this.

" _I hate you as much as the next guy, dude, but I’m kind of obligated to ask if you’re okay._ " You frown. So far, there have been three clicks from HB’s room. You know from experience and boredom that he has five locks on the door. As you see it, you and Karkat are running out of time. So, without really thinking about it, you grab him by the arm and pull him into your room. You slam the door closed and lock the deadbolt once he’s inside.

He, meanwhile, stares at you like you’ve grown a third head. " _Like you actually care._ "

The comment is pointed. No, it’s sharpened. It’s a finely crafted sword, and it stabs you in the gut. Sure, you can be cold, but you’ve never had someone actually point out just _how_ cold you are. And, now that you’ve been enlightened, you feel… shitty. And, when you respond, the fact that you’re only being halfway truthful only makes the feelings grow more intense. " _I care about it. Tell me._ "

Perhaps he’s been holding onto whatever it is that’s been bothering him for too long. Maybe he’s just done with trying to hide it. Whatever the fact is, he spills the beans without even a second of hesitation. His hands move with the same ease and speed as if he’s telling you what he’s eaten for lunch. " _For the sake of your puny, shriveled little husk of a brain, I’ll cut to the chase. I’m legally blind._ "

" _And you do art?_ " Though you know the question is more than a bit rude, you can’t help yourself. Besides, it’ll come up eventually; you’re fake dating each other for the band’s image. And, on that note… " _You didn’t tell me this sooner because…?_ " To make the statement a question, you furrow your brows and let your lips part a little.

" _Recent development. Breaking news._ "

" _You just woke up one morning?_ "

" _No, you fucking asshole._ " He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead and lets forth a groan of frustration. " _Whatever. Why am I even talking to you? Not like you’d understand._ "

" _Who else are you going to talk to? I’m the only other one on campus who knows sign language._ " Certainly, it’s a low shot. But it’s also true. " _Just keep going._ " By now, you’re getting curious.

How has he hidden this? Why wasn’t it on his information sheet? Is the universe conspiring to surround you with irony?

" _It’s a genetic mutation._ " He shrugs. Again, it seems as if he’s going to talk just to talk. That same ease and speed returns to his movements as he explains himself. " _I left to get tested for cataracts and all that lovely shit._ "

" _Cataracts is for old people._ "

He glares at you. " _I’m already developing a lovely pair of them._ "

" _So get them removed?_ " To you, it’s a no-brainer. Why keep them? If he’s Deaf, which he sure as fuck is, then having cataracts is like murdering his own social life. They’ve been found, so take them out. Throw out the moldy piece of bread before it gets to the others.

" _It’s not that easy. They have to mature._ " He frowns.

Though it’s not entirely purposeful, you find yourself signing an interjection. " _Cataracts. Get your fresh, ripe cataracts! Straight from the vine!_ "

To your surprise, he laughs. And, to add to your surprise, you feel that strange warmth again. The sensation of safety and content—something you’d pushed to the back of your mind for a considerable amount of time—reemerges. And your old fears resurface with it.

Bro would kill you right now. If he knew what you were feeling—what you were thinking…

" _Don’t tell anyone about this._ " You invest yourself in what he’s signing. You focus on his hands and ignore everything else. You nod, as if you’ve been watching this entire time, as he continued. " _Please._ "

" _Why not?_ "

He scowls. A growl of frustration escapes him. " _I’ll be expelled from the art program._ "

" _How do you even do art? You’re blind._ " At this point, you’re on autopilot. Your hands move of their own accord, conveying your thoughts directly and in real time.

" _You’re a culturally Deaf musician with no verbal skills, and you’re going to pick on me for being a legally blind artist?_ " He frowns. " _I still have some central vision._ "

Nod. Shrug. Make eye contact. Respond. You follow the social protocols that you’ve learned throughout the course of your life. Act like nothing is wrong, and no one will suspect a thing. " _Makes enough sense._ "

" _You promise that no one will know about this?_ " As he says this, his gaze meets yours. His eyes catch the light, revealing a nearly transparent layer of milky white. The silver of his irises seems to reflect the flickering fluorescent lighting of your room like tin foil, and it takes you an outstanding amount of effort to pull your gaze away.

And, when you succeed, you simply go through the motions. You watch as he turns to leave, offer a small smile, and wave. When the door to the bathroom you share with him clicks closed, however, you throw yourself onto your bed. You stare at the ceiling and try to take everything in.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

You’re in some sort of prison-college combination package, and the only people you know are… Well… One doesn’t belong here, and the other seems to do everything just to spite the world around him. And, above all that, you might be…

No.

You’re not.

You could never be.

You’re just the best goddamned actor out there. You are 1000% straight. There’s no room for error. You’re a disappointment to your Bro and the absolute ass of the family, but you’re still straight. And that’s the only thing that’s keeping Bro from dumping your ass on the side of a street with a paper bag of clothes and a pocket of loose change.

No.

You, Dave Strider, are completely and inexorably straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _come on and slam and welcome to the ~~jam~~ plot_  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  sorry this took so long as per usual comments, feedback, and pointing out my typos is appreciated  
> 


	12. And the night was alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**and the night was alive** / with a thousand voices_](http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/titanicmusical/theproposalthenightwasalive.htm) [[x](https://youtu.be/2CWxDB7JxCA)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here comes karkat's point of view btw

" _We can’t use our real names, Strider. That’s social suicide_." Karkat scowls at you. His hands move with speed and urgency. And, in the background, you can hear the club’s crew setting up. " _Think of something._ " His left hand forms an “A,” the palm facing to the right, and he twists his wrist. At the end of this, his palm faces downwards, and his thumb points to the right. This smoothly transitions into the next movement—palm up, hand flattened—a swift, slight up-down motion. " _Anything_." He points his index finger to the sky and moves it so that it draws a small, horizontal circle. " _Something_."

You shrug. To be honest, you haven’t actually considered this. You’d never thought about it that deeply. After all… " _D-S-T-R-I and K-K._ " The letters slide off of your fingers like water off waterproof fabric. " _Try that._ "

" _Try that?_ " Karkat furrows his brows. " _You mean I’m going to do the talking?_ "

Again, you shrug. " _I’m the one who can’t talk. Have you forgotten that, or is this a joke?_ "

Karkat freezes. He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, and rolls his eyes. " _Fuck. I keep forgetting._ " As soon as he’s finished this, he waves his hands dismissively. He huffs. " _The point is that those are obvious as fuck._ "

" _Who’s going to know? No one. No one will be looking for the Deaf kid and the mute kid at the goddamned music clubs._ " To emphasize your point, you throw in a snicker. A harsh, annoying sound—something that grates against your ears. You’ve never liked the sound of your own laughter, and that’s not about to change now.

" _Fine._ " Karkat’s answer is reluctant. He hesitates before answering and, when he responds, his movements are slower than usual. " _If we get caught, it’s your fault._ "

" _I’ll gladly take the blame._ " You offer a wide grin.

_Why wouldn’t you take the blame? This has been your dream since you were a kid. It’s something the world always told you was impossible—something out of your reach. And, yet, you’re here._

It doesn’t matter to you that you’re going against school rules and facing possible hell as punishment. It doesn’t matter to you that your bandmate is a complete jackass. No, what matters to you is the fact that you can already hear the murmuring through the door to the tiny backstage area. You can hear the announcement being made.

“Tonight, The Shining Penny is debuting a new band…”

The murmuring stops. Your heart starts to race.

“Tonight, we present to you… Band of Signs!”

You shove Karkat forwards.

And, though he shoots a glare at you over his shoulder, he gets the message. He steps through the door and onto the dimly lit stage.

You follow.

And, from there, the world blurs.

You’re caught in a flurry of sound and noise. Clapping and cheering. Karkat’s voice rising above the cacophony as he declares your stage names.

And, somehow, through all of it…

Your attention keeps drifting to him.

The way he invests himself in the music—his eyes half-closed, his brows furrowed in concentration.

And, speaking of that, you find it odd—how his brows are furrowed, that is. Usually, he looks pissed off. He looks like he’s ready to punch his way straight through someone’s ribcage and rip out their still-beating heart. Yet, now, it’s different. No. Now, the line between those thick, black brows is one of complete concentration. And, maybe, it’s a bit of confusion. Because, at the same time, there’s a tiny smile on his face. It’s the sort of smile that people have when they’re driving a fast car or doing something they’re not supposed to be doing.

You search for a word and, a good ten minutes into the performance, you finally come up with one.

Freedom.

You suppose that’s what you feel, too. You feel a freedom that you’ve never felt before. There’s no one here who knows you as anything more than some random asshole in some completely unknown band. You’re no longer Dave Strider, the son of Broseph. In fact, you’re nothing. And you find that liberating as fuck.

If you weren’t keenly aware of the fact that you’d murder any chances of becoming anything more than a sideshow, you’d let yourself go. Rip off your shirt and jump on one of the tables. Of course, beyond that, you’re playing a goddamned double bass… So…

…

Damn.

That got surprisingly personal.

You don’t usually do that. Not even in your own head.

But, now that you have, you feel… good. You feel…

“It’s over, asshole.”

Karkat’s voice pulls you from your introspection. He grabs you by your shoulder and, as he pulls you in, he uses his other hand to pry the bass from your grip. When he’s done, his hands fly. " _Where the hell were you, Strider? In fucking space?_ "

You shrug.

“I was thinking about my life” isn’t exactly a cool answer. In fact, it’s a very, very shitty answer. Crappy. No. You can’t say that. Instead, you offer an alternate explanation. " _I was practicing astral projection._ "

" _How wonderful. What for? Looking up skirts?_ " He wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out at this, making his feelings clear.

And, for some reason, the comment rubs you the wrong way. You might not know Karkat that well, but you’re not flattered. Although, thinking about it, you wouldn't be flattered if _anyone_ pointed something like this out to you. Why would you be? You’re not _that_ creepy. You hold your hand like a claw and brush the fingertips on your stomach in a circular motion. " _Disgusting._ "

" _You’re the creep. Not me._ "

Actually…

Now that you think about it…

You’ve never really thought of girls that way.

Well… You have. Very rarely. Very, _very_ rarely…

Wait…

No…

Stop.

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

**[Courtesy of Karkat Vantas...]**

Let’s all assume that, for one whole fucking minute, you’re not some self-inflated douchebag with some sort of twisted version of a Napoleon complex.

Instead, let’s assume that you’re someone completely different. Let’s assume you’re some jackass formerly known as Karuna Vantas. However, as of your late adolescent years—particularly when you were sixteen—you’ve been Karkat Vantas.

Right now, you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere.

Literally.

Now, of course, you’ve never willingly admitted it to anyone. No one would ever believe you, anyhow. You didn’t think Dave would believe you, really; that’s why you’d told him. And, somehow, you were wrong. Apparently, he was curious enough to care. And, if the rumors Kanaya keeps spilling are true, he’s starting to put the pieces together in his free time. That is to say, he’s getting knees deep into some thick, feculent Google shit.

And, as a whole, you _do_ have a point. You are going somewhere with this.

And your point is this: Dave Strider is about to walk straight through a metaphorical gate of yours. It’s one of those huge, flowery, wrought iron ones. It’s the type you’d put in the middle of a tall stone wall. And that wall is one that's tall so that no one can see all the ugly, dead vegetation in the yard. For years, you’ve kept this gate locked. You’ve even created a completely nonexistent, rhetorical guard for it. No one gets in. Ever. Not even you.

And, now, this…

This absolute butt-sniffing, shit-eating, asswipe is about to walk right in like he owns the place.

And you can’t do a single thing about it.

You can’t stop him. You certainly can’t legally murder him to keep your secret.

But, this guy…

This bastard’s dangerous. You’d bet your goddamned kidney that he’s the type to use that against you. Sure, he’s all cordial and shit. He acts like a pretty decent guy; the minute he’s done with you, though, he lets it fly. He tells everyone and anyone the dirt he’s dredged up on you—the pond scum he’s collected and kept in a jar. And, when that jar breaks, so do you.

So, to keep him quiet, you figure you’ll have to play along with his…

Whatever the hell this is.

Play in his goddamned band. Act like you give a damn about his petty problems.

Sure, it’ll be painful. It’s going to burn a hole in your skull until the day you’re fucking dead, but it’s better than watching him let all that shitty, filthy pond scum pollute the not-quite-pristine pool of your current life.

Oh.

Fuck.

You did that thing again, didn’t you?

That thing where you use obtuse metaphors and make comparisons that make sense to no one but you…

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and feedback and pointing out my typos are always appreciated


	13. Flip on a switch and everything's fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**flip on a switch and everything's fine** / no more lips, no more tongue, no more ears, no more eyes_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-mirrorblue-night-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4mAo-u0ZbxM)]

**[and to your accusations of loose moral conduct i have only one thing to say and that would be dickbutt]**

For most of your life, you’ve dealt with people believing that your nonverbal lifestyle was some sort of terrible, awful disease. A plague of sorts. Possibly a cancer. It’s something that should, according to them, make your life unbearably depressing and drab. “Oh no. you’ll never communicate with anyone in your life ever.”

Sure, it’s not all artificially scented roses, but it’s not the hellhole people make it out to be. You’ve got friends. You’ve got… No. Scratch that. You don’t really have a family. But, you’ve got that first thing. You’ve got John and, to some degree, you’ve got that loud asshole next door.

That isn’t to say that you don’t wish you _could_ speak every now and again.

And, on that topic, there’s always been one thing you’ve always wanted to say. Out of all the words in the English language—of all the eloquent, prosaic things you could ever concoct—there’s one thing that you’ve always have a burning desire to scream aloud. A phrase you’ve wanted to scream to the world. Ever since you learned it from Bro.

What is it? That’s the million dollar question.

And the answer is simple.

In fact, right now, it’s the number one thing on your mind.

_Kiss my ass._

It’s all you can think as you watch Rose interpret the lecture at the front of the class. In fact, by now, you’ve lost interest in watching her. For the sake of keeping her job, she continues. It’s clear to you, however, that she’s perfectly aware of the fact that you’re not watching.

Actually, your attentions have shifted towards Karkat. He’s sitting next to you, and he’s paying about as much attention as you are.

So, naturally, you elbow him in the side.

His eyes turn towards you and, after a moment, he seems to recognize you. Today, he’s wearing something new—a pair of round, Harry-Potter-like glasses. The rims are thin, the lenses thick, and there’s a slight red tint to them. As a whole, they look like something a confused old woman would wear—the type of thing a batty, eccentric old fart would grab on the way to the movies. With such… unpleasant, perhaps… No. Unpleasant is putting it gently. Fugly. That’s what they are. The glasses are fucking ugly, and you can’t help but comment on them. Under the desk, you point to the crimes against fashion perched atop the bridge of his nose. Then, you skim the back of your left hand against the loosely flattened palm of your right. " _Those are new._ "

" _They’re medically necessary, jackass._ " He huffs quietly. Though he makes an effort to look like he’s writing notes, it’s obvious that he’s just scribbling random letters. If he’s not, then it’s one weird code; you can’t see any meaning behind “arogkdoiE;e@.”

You take this and use it against him. " _You’re a spy. I knew it._ "

" _Yeah._ " He rolls his eyes. His lips press together, forming a thin line. " _They sent the Deaf kid with tunnel vision to the extreme out as a spy. Great job, Sherlock. You want a fucking cookie?_ "

" _Someone’s salty today._ " Under your breath, you let forth a few tuts. Shaking your head only nails your intended message out even more. At this point, you have no intentions of learning anything about him or even holding a conversation; you’re just bored enough to see what happens if you keep prodding him. Will he cave like cheap clay? Will he explode like a science experiment gone wrong? That’s what you’re about to find out. Hopefully. " _Do you drive much?_ "

" _I was legally barred from driving the minute I could have a learner’s permit, you insensitive fuck._ " With the tint of his shades being as light as they are, you can see his eyes. They’re focused on you—particularly at a point perfectly between your brows—and, if looks could kill, you’d be the victim of assassination-by-glaring right now. " _In retrospect, going completely blind isn’t all that bad. I’ll try it now just to avoid putting up with you._ "

" _Harsh._ " You sigh, exaggerating the motion. Now, though, you’re getting curious. You won’t admit that upfront, though. No, you’re going to play it cool. You’re a Strider; you play _everything_ cool. " _How are you doing art if you’re blind?_ "

" _Legally blind._ " He clarifies. " _My field of vision, much like my goddamned patience, is shrinking._ "

" _How big is it now?_ "

" _The size you’ll be when I’m finished beating you until you shut up._ "

 

* * *

**[From the deepest, moldiest depths of my heart, I want to sincerely fucking thank you for absolutely nothing.]**

Outside, there just so happens to be a storm going on.

No.

Storm is too gentle a word for this.

No.

What is this? This is a goddamned apocalyptic hurricane straight from the tempestuous depths of hell. Nature’s wrath against a school that shouldn’t still be standing in this day and age. And you? Well, your name is Karkat Vantas right now, and it just so happens that the power got knocked out about half an hour ago.

And this isn’t just, like, some sort of minor thing. The streetlights are out. The emergency safety lights are, somehow, out. If your interpretation of the garbled noises coming through your implant are correct, there’s also a fire somewhere. On campus. There’s a fire on campus, and it’s apparently a damned huge one.

More importantly, though, you’re on the ground. You’ve been on the ground for the past ten minutes or so. You’d tripped on something and, just like those fucking commercials, you can’t get up. The specifics are pretty innocuous. Your head is spinning and your knee hurts like hell.

_Probably banged it against something._

You reassure yourself of this. You trip and fall all the time. It’s no big deal. Right?

Oh. Wait, no.

The world hates you. For some reason, the world is intent on destroying your happiness. So, naturally, the familiar screech of something you’re assuming to be a fire alarm starts going off.

You start to realize that the fabric of your pants is wet. Warm. And, adding to this, there’s a subtle metallic smell to the air.

You’re bleeding.

Again.

You can only speculate as to what you caught yourself on this time, but you’re well aware of the fact that you’re not getting anywhere. And, honestly, you’re not counting much on your suitemate. Why would you? He’s an annoying, inflated bastard whose first priority is himself. He won’t be helping you; hell, he’s probably far, far away from here.

So, you resign yourself to your doom…

 

* * *

**[nothing brings people together like a minor local disaster]**

It’s been twelve minutes since you were allowed to reenter the dormitory building.

Apparently, the fire was little more than some errant trash mishap.

Some stray hot pockets caught a small trash can on fire. The sprinklers came on and all that was left in terms of damage was a sad, smoldering, melted plastic bin.

Karkat, however, seems to have settled in for his fiery demise. Specifically, he’s curled up in a ball, asleep. The left knee of his pants is ripped open and dried blood crusts both the frayed edges of the fabric and the floor. Judging by the rusty brown staining the sharp tip of a stray nail on the side of the bed, you’ve got a hunch about the source of the carnage.

You’ve been crouched beside him and shaking his shoulder for the past ten minutes. Now, though, he’s finally opened his eyes. He’s staring at you, his brows furrowed, as you sign. " _Welcome back, you sleepy fuck._ "

He, in return, frowns. He aims a punch at you, though he ends up missing by a good six inches. He speaks aloud, his voice as loud as usual. “Dear God. This is a fucking nightmare. Am I in hell!?”

" _No. No. You’re alive right now._ " You offer an attempt at a reassuring smile.

Not that you know why you’re doing this. After all, you’re not exactly crazy about this guy. He’s loud, annoying, and abrasive. Still, you’re not about to let him think he’s dead. For all you know, he didn’t even know the fire alarm went off, and HB wasn’t all that concerned about making sure he’d made it out.

But, as it stands, he isn’t too keen on you being the first one to find him. Now, though, he returns to signing. " _I think I’d prefer being burnt to a crisp._ "

" _Damn. What’s your problem!?_ " You let forth a huff of confusion. " _What the hell did I do to you?_ "

He, in return, stares at you with a look of absolute confusion. He pushes himself up, until he’s sitting. " _I can’t understand you. One minute…_ " Then, without any further notice, he places his hands over yours. It’s light and loose, but his hands are damned warm. Uncomfortably warm. And soft…

You hesitate.

He barks out an order. “Sign,” he snaps.

You move your hands as instructed. " _What the hell are you doing?_ "

He pulls his hands away and, when he does, your hands feel strangely cold. " _I can’t see everything at once, and the dorm is too small for you to get into my field of vision._ " Then, his hands rest atop yours again.

You feel a blush creeping onto your cheeks. Heat rising. Your stomach flips, and there’s an odd fluttering in your chest. And, without much fanfare, you cut everything short. " _Glad to see you’re okay. I’ll go get the nurse._ " With this, you pull away and stagger to your feet.

Your heart is pounding. Your breathing has quickened. Your hands shake.

What the hell is this?

You recall Bro telling you about this. Once, when he was sober, he explained it. He explained how it felt to be attracted to someone. The nervous energy of realization and, slowly, it dawns upon you. _No…_

_No…_

_You can’t be…_

“Dave?” Karkat’s voice follows you. It’s hesitant. The sounds are as distinct and carefully articulated as always, but slower. “Dave?”

You ignore him. You stumble out, into the bathroom, and slam the door shut once in your room.

_Shit._

_Goddamned shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any comments, feedback, and pointing out any typos are welcome! i hope you're enjoying the story.


	14. Sorry it won't change, been there before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_but still you know, you wanted more / **sorry it won't change, been there before**_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/and-then-there-were-none-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDyJq78-U38)]

**[I just can't get my head around this motherfucking bastard.]**

" _He’s… I don’t understand what I did?_ " You frown and shrug, your brows furrowed in confusion. At this point, you’re still reeling. You just needed some clarification. Some sort of way to understand what he was trying to tell you. And he pulled away.

Sure, you’ve seen it before. 

You’ve never quite fit in with anyone else. By high school, most people avoided you. How were they supposed to communicate with you? Too blind to understand most of what they were telling you and too insecure to ask for help.

According to Rose, it’s where your aggression came from. Pent up rage and emotion. Feelings of isolation and confusion. At least, that's how Kanaya reports it.

No.

That’s bullshit. That’s absolute fucking bullshit. She’s… wrong… right?

" _I think he likes you, Karkat._ " With your hands atop hers, you can easily understand her. It takes the strain out of trying to understand her. It’s less of a hassle than trying to squint at her for however long it takes to get what she says out.

And, yet, you still interrupt. " _No._ " You answer firmly. Index and middle finger snap closed against your thumb. " _No._ " You repeat, shaking your head with absolute conviction. " _That’s not true. You’re just trying to get a reaction._ "

" _He likes you. He really likes you._ " She repeats herself for emphasis. You imagine her expression—you can practically the shit-eating told-you-so grin on her face. A smile so subtle it’s barely there, yet so obvious that you can’t fucking miss it. " _He’s practically screaming for you to date him._ "

Again, you shake your head. " _Dave’s not gay._ " Though you use your own name sign—the modified walking sign for Strider—in public, you use his real name sign in private. It’s only common decency, of course, but… " _He can’t be. Especially not for me._ "

" _And how would you know?_ " There’s a buzzing sound. Something you roughly approximate to be a sort of “hm” sound.

Yet, you insist. " _Dave. Is. Not. Gay._ " To emphasize this, you pause between each word. Your lips press together, forming a thin but definite line. As you see it, you’re getting your message across nicely. Dave is _not_ gay, and he’s certainly not gay for you. And… " _Even if he was, I’d rather pull a goddamned Oedipus and stab out my own eyes. Fuck that bastard. He’s a stuck-up, over-inflated, self-centered jackass, and I want nothing at all to do with him._ "

" _But you’re in his band, are you not?_ " There’s that fucking smile again. That thin-lipped I-told-you-so smile. That smug, insufferable expression. You can practically feel it dripping from her fingers like poisonous goop. She know she has you cornered.

But you won’t let her win. No. There’s no way in hell you’ll let her win. Even if hell freezes over, shatters into a million shards of jagged ice, and then explodes into oblivion… " _I don’t give a damn about that fucker._ "

" _Right. And I’m about to break up with Rose to date John Cena._ "

You’ve had enough. You take your hands off of hers. " _I’m done. You’re dismissed. Get out of my room._ "

There’s a series of electronic hums and clicks. Buzzes and groans that, after a good bit of consideration, you piece together into a semi-coherent phrase. “As you wish, Buttercup.”

For her verbal response, you offer your own. “OUT!” It thunders in your head. The feedback is enough to make you cringe, but, to maintain your posturing, you don’t. You simply swallow the pain and resolve to deal with the inevitable headache when it happens. Right now, you just want to be left alone. You’re not about to get told who you like or who likes you.

Hell, you don’t give a fuck about who likes you. Because, right now, you don’t like _him_. No. Not at fucking all. You _hate_ him. You hate his fucking guts. You loathe everything he stands for—everything he is. Because you are Karkat goddamned Vantas, and you’re not about to fall for your pain-in-the-ass suitemate with some sort of strange, unfounded Napoleon complex for his own glorified ego.

 

* * *

 

**[the point here is that my world just exploded in the least cool way possible]**

“You’re overreacting.”

" _I’m not overreacting._ " Your reply is fast and large. Your sign sweeps as far as possible across your body and the muscles of your arms and hands ache from the strain. " _I’m fucking dead, Rose. I’m so fucking dead._ "

“Your brother is over fifty miles away,” she reassures.

You shake your head. " _That’s only an hour or two. Maybe not even that._ " A groan of frustration escapes you. " _I can’t be… gay…_ " You can’t bring yourself to do any of the quicker, regional signs you’ve seen in use; instead, you simply spell it out. And, even then, it feels strange. " _I… I think Kanaya is hot._ "

“That’s an _aesthetic_ attraction, Dave,” Rose explains, her voice as calm as always. “You might be bisexual, but the point is that you seem to have some sort of thing for Karkat.”

" _I don’t._ " You insist. Then, slowly, you find yourself divulging more. " _I just… Think…_ " There are long gaps between your signing. Your mind keeps zoning out, lulling into a state of blank confusion. " _His hands are soft… And… And…_ " The sign repeats itself. The fingers of your left hand spread apart. Your hand is held at chest level and, when you press your fingers together and touch your thumb to them, the hand moves a bit to the left. You keep doing this as you try to find something more to say about your suitemate. " _Don’t tell anyone about this._ "

“Why would I?” Rose frowns. It’s a slight, subtle change.

" _I don’t know. Don’t tell anyone about this, alright?_ " You end this with as stern of a look as you can muster right now.

After all, your heart is racing. Your mind is clouded with thoughts of what Bro would do if he found out that…

 _No_. The word echoes in your head. _No!_ He won’t find out! No one will find out. Not now. Not ever. Because you, Dave Strider, are not gay.

Rose, meanwhile, breathes a long but quiet sigh. She runs her fingers through her hair and, after adjusting her headband, she offers some solid advice. “Dave,” she says, drawing you from your thoughts, “You should try to get to know him better. Talk with him.”

" _But he’ll touch me again._ " You grimace. Having his hands on yours was uncomfortable enough. The fact that they were so damned soft and warm—whereas yours are perpetually cold and rough from swordfights with Bro—only served to take it into the territory of ‘outright creepy.’

…But, admittedly, that territory was kind of nice…

“Well,” hums Rose. By now, she’s beginning to pack up her things. She throws her planner into her purse and does a quick check to make sure she hasn’t left anything of importance behind. As her eyes sweep across the room, she continues, “How is he supposed to understand what you’re saying? Aren’t you the one who complained about being the only culturally Deaf kid in a mainstream school?”

" _That was different._ " Your jaw is set as you respond. " _I didn’t do that weird… hand-holding business. People are going to think we’re gay_."

“You don’t know until you learn more about him.” With this, Rose throws her bag over her shoulder. She offers you a smile—one of those shitty know-it-all sort of smirks. “How would you feel if you didn’t have John to talk to, hm?”

" _Fuck_." A groan escapes you as the realization sets in. First, there’s the recognition of her statement. You’d feel shitty as hell without John and his stubborn insistence on being friends. Hell, the little dweeb had even learned sign language to talk to you. He’d plopped himself down at the lunch table one day and just started signing away. And you’d be lying if you claimed it didn’t make you feel good to be included by someone. Even a dork like John…

And, secondly, she’s… right again. You can’t just base your attraction on his looks. You have to get into the nitty gritty that is Karkat yells-a-lot Vantas. And, when you do, you’re perfectly confident that what you find will be nothing that you’ll like. In any way, shape, or form.

“Think about it.” And, with that, the door clicks shut.

Rose is gone, and you’re left alone with nothing but your thoughts and the ever-growing dread of what will happen when word gets out.

_“Dave Strider is gay,” the campus will murmur. “Dave Strider is some dumb, gay loser with nothing but his own nasty, sinful thoughts and his crimes against heaven itself.”_

_And the word will get out; the word always gets out. Bro always knows. Somehow, he always knows. He’ll find you, and, when that happens…_

You cut yourself off. You throw on the handbrake and bring your mind to a sudden, abrupt halt.

_No._

You reassure yourself.

_Bro won’t find out. Because it’s not true._

_It’s not._

_It’s not._

_It’s… probably not…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, feedback, typo corrections and all that are still welcome and appreciated


	15. I must have had a moment of truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_but somewhere in my wicked, miserable past / **i must have had a moment of truth**_](http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/t/the_sound_of_music/something_good.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNdl-HIkDqQ)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****  
>    
>  _yeah it's the sound of music fuckin sue me_   
> 

**[out go the lights]**

Not even twenty-four hours pass between the time they restore power to the school and the minute it’s knocked out again. A loud clap of thunder, a flash of lightning, and total darkness. No streetlights. No emergency lights. No backup generators. Nothing. Not even the steady hum of the decades-old air conditioning units scattered across campus. Just… Absolutely goddamned nothing.

And, now, there’s someone knocking on the bathroom door.

And, now, it can only be one person.

“Strider?” His voice seeps through the cracks around the old wooden portal. His knuckles rap against it. “Strider?”

With a heavy sigh, you rise to your feet. You open the door, only to find yourself staring at a thoroughly disoriented Karkat Vantas.

" _Do you have a flashlight?_ " He quirks his brows and offers a small, perhaps embarrassed frown. He scuffs the toes of his rubber-soled slippers against the bathroom tile, leaving behind jagged black lines. Remnants of rubber from the ugly, fluffy, bright red things that cover his feet.

_Damn. It would be so nice if you could just TALK. Just skip this awkward handholding business. But…_

His hands reach out. Though he fumbles a bit, his hands are on top of yours before your thoughts can even finish. There’ll be no nice, neat mental ribbons on this package of confusion. No sir. Not today.

As if it will somehow communicate to him your disapproval of the situation, you preface your response with a long, bitter groan. Since this seems to do nothing, however, you cut to the point. " _Do you really have to be touching me right now?_ "

A sigh of relief escapes you as his hands are lifted away. You revel in the time it takes for him to sign his response. After all, when he’s not touching you, there’s none of that… fluttering. None of those inexplicable feelings. " _I can’t see anything right now. Do you have a damned flashlight or not?_ "

Then, again, his hands are on top of yours. Heat rises to your cheeks. A seed of hesitancy—something you’re personally unfamiliar with—begins to grow within you. It works its way from your pounding heart to your hands, and you find yourself constantly having to correct your signing. Why? You’ve been using ASL your entire life. Why now? " _I… I have one… But… I was about to use it… Don’t… You don’t have one?_ "

He shrugs. " _I might. But I can’t see anything. Just give me your flashlight for a second._ " He pauses and, then, adds to his demand. " _Please._ "

And you, unable to bring yourself to leave him stranded in his room with a scraped knee from hell, agree. You fetch the flashlight and, as you hand it off to him, he does something unexpected.

He opens his mouth and, aloud, asks you, “Would you mind helping out? You’ve probably got better vision than me…” As he speaks, he flicks the flashlight on. He winces as it lights up the room, and you notice that he spends a solid minute or so in a state of confused shock.

" _Exactly how bad is your vision?_ "

He stares at you like you’ve sprouted another head. He aims the beam of light at your hands and nods. ‘Go on,’ he seems to be saying.

So, you do. " _Your vision._ " You repeat yourself. " _How bad is it?_ "

“Pretty fucking bad.” He shifts uncomfortably. First, to the left; then, to the right. He chews on his lip and runs his free hand through his hair. “Are you going to help me or not?”

" _Sure._ " Your hand forms an ‘A’ and, with your wrist, you move it like a nodding head. A casual shrug serves to provide the tone of your response.

To your surprise, he offers a small smile. It’s barely a second in length—a breath of fleeting beauty that, like the most fucking clichéd of winds, disappears before you can truly feel it. “Thanks. But this doesn’t mean I care about you any more than I care about that hornet that’s stuck in my fluorescent light.”

You laugh. Well, it’s more of a nervous chuckle. " _There’s not a hornet in your light._ "

As the door opens, he gestures to the light.

Inside, as clear as day, you can see the shadow of a buzzing insect. A loud and angry buzzing insect.

A single thought runs through your mind: _Well… Call me a liar and slap me between some buttered bread._

 

* * *

 

**[Gag me with a fucking spoon.]**

He’s…

Actually…

Pretty…

Nice…

Damn.

He’s actually pretty nice. Against all odds, he’s nice. Sure, he puts up this air. He maintains an aura of insufferable douchebag around himself. But, as it turns out, it’s just that. An act. Something for show. And, deep down, that bothers you.

In the most simplistic of terms possible: you like him. You like how he seems to ramble pointlessly about things. How his hands move when he’s perfectly aware of the fact that not even a bored ghost would be listening. It’s kind of funny. Cute, even…

 _No… Oh… No_.

" _You’re not half bad, Vantas._ " He copies the motion of your true name sign. The extended and parted index and middle fingers of his left hand brush against his flattened right. _Painter_ or _painting_ , perhaps even _artist_. What the intended word is doesn’t really matter. No. What matters is… Is… " _Vantas?_ "

You blink. Though it’s not the crisp, clear sound you’re aware it should be, you can hear him snapping. It’s a muffled, fuzzy crack in your ears. A series of them, really. _Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump._ “Fuck,” you say aloud. Then, as usual, you return to what you’re most comfortable with. " _I hate to admit that you’re also not half bad._ "

He smirks. Or, perhaps, it’s a lopsided smile. Whatever it is, it’s damned cute. It also reveals the last thing you’d expect to see on Dave insufferable-cool-kid Strider—a dimple. " _I’ll take that as a compliment. Coming from you, I’ll assume it’s a compliment._ "

You swallow. Really, there’s nothing in your mouth to swallow; all you’ve done is swallow air. Pure air, and it still gets caught in your throat as you remove your hands from his. At the same time, you wonder.

Above all else, you wonder where the scars came from. How did this seemingly perfect image of the typical suburban kid end up with rigid, sometimes jagged, straight lines across his hands and palms? When in his seemingly picturesque middle-class upbringing did he get an indent about a centimeter across and two inches long on his left forearm?

Not… Not that you were _feeling_ him. No. He’d been signing, and your hand slipped. Your fingers brushed against the scar and…

There’s a noise. Something you can’t exactly place as a defined word, but whose electronic modulations you can decipher as rough syllables. “ _‘Ey. ‘Ey_.” Then, a sharp whistle.

You turn swiftly.

He grabs your wrists. Though, to your surprise, it’s gentle. His grip is enough to get your attention, but not enough to be impossible to break. In fact, if you were to so much as take a step back, you’re sure you’d slide free of his grasp; just moving your arms a bit is enough to slide them into the proper position to read his signing.

" _You want to maybe go get a cup of coffee some time? As friends. Not… Not anything romantic. Just… I’d like you get to know you better._ "

As if by some sort of hellish coincidence, the lights flicker back on. They dance in your vision, obscuring it as if you’ve been staring straight into the brightest strobe lights in the world. Like you’ve looked directly at the sun. By instinct, you pull your hands away from his. Before you can cover your eyes, though, you see him.

There’s that stupid, lopsided grin again. That… That goddamned dimple…

Still, you have to play it down. This bastard’s ego is already big enough. To pump it up more is just asking for a load of bullshit to come flooding in. So, you shrug. You force yourself to maintain as straight as a face as possible. " _Sure. I have nothing better to waste my time on._ "

And, if your assumptions are correct—if you’re reading his body language right—he seems to be playing the same game as you are. His look of disinterest seems as fake as yours. " _Yeah. Whatever. Cool._ " He waves, shrugs, and takes a step backwards, towards the door. " _Since the lights are back on, I’m going. No need to waste any more of my life on talking with you, right?_ "

“Oh.” You nod with a bit too much vigor. Nonetheless, you keep going. The worst thing to do is interrupt a performance to acknowledge a mistake. " _Of course. Absolutely._ "

" _Exactly._ " An awkward, forced smile. Then, in the blink of an eye, he turns. He’s gone before you can really understand what’s happened.

When you try the door leading from the bathroom to his room, you find that it’s locked.

 _Dear God,_ you find yourself thinking, _What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same routine. comments and stuff are welcome and i love them a lot i also like constructive criticism and feedback and i probably made a lot of typos because i'm kinda doing like three things at once atm


	16. And their money's good as yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_they fly through my doors / **and their money's good as yours**_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/master-of-the-house-lyrics-les-miserables.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kqTEF24gWs)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "will you stop using serious musicals' lyrics for this gay fanfic?"   
>  lol no

**[The brain is, in its simplest form, a pink blob of complete fucking nonsense.]**

The first time you realized something was wrong with your vision was when you were twelve. It was late—only a few minutes until midnight, to be precise—and you’d gotten lost. It was Halloween night and, like an idiot, you’d gone to the local amusement park’s Halloween event. Somehow, you’d gotten separated from your group and stranded in a darker part of the park.

You were surrounded by people in over-the-top horror makeup and, though you didn’t admit it at the time, you were terrified. You couldn’t see a damned thing, and, when you could, it was usually some creepy-ass clown.

When you got out, your parents insisted on taking you directly to the hospital. According to them, you’d had some sort of stroke. Or, perhaps, it was a brain aneurism. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the real cause. And you knew that.

See, the problem was that people assumed that you didn’t pay attention. That, even without your implant, you didn’t understand anything said aloud. And, of course, that’s fucking wrong.

The truth is that, when you really, _really_ want to, you can understand a lot. You can read lips and, using body language, fill in where you don’t understand what’s being said.

And, when you were a kid, you did that _a lot_.

You knew exactly what your problem was, and you never told a soul. No, when doctors came back that morning with the definitive diagnosis of Usher syndrome, you did your best to act like you were goddamned shocked. More shocked than you’d be if you jammed a fork in an electrical outlet, in fact.

“A…” The monotone voice plays from the beaten up CD player in the corner of your room. “A, as in apple. B. B, as in boy”

You’ve always hated that CD. You’d been given it after getting your implant, and it’s been a massive pain in the ass ever since. According to the audiologist, it’s supposed to help you learn sounds. At least, it’s to help you piece together the garbled bullshit you hear.

Despite its longstanding record for being obnoxious, however, you’ve found that it’s great for background noise.

“C. C, as in cat.”

As far as you’re concerned, Dave Strider is nothing but a nuisance. He’s the pea under the mattress, and all he’ll ever be good for is…

Is…

“F. F, as in friend.”

A long, heavy sigh escapes you.

 

* * *

**[i didnt pay twenty fuckin dollars for this to happen to me]**

_DAVE blacked out!_

You let forth a loud, indignant huff as you throw your old Gameboy across the room. To any outsider, the action clearly explains why the poor handheld looks like someone’s thrown it into a trash compactor.

" _Piece of shit game._ " You sign this to the chewed up device in the corner and fold your arms across your chest.

Meanwhile, Rose offers the most infuriatingly know-it-all snicker you’ve ever heard.

Naturally, you spin about to face her. " _What!?_ " You respond tersely. " _What the hell was that for?_ "

“You’re in denial, Dave,” she hums.

" _I’m not._ "

“Just try talking to him,” she advises you, “Like I said before. He’s not that bad of a guy. He just needs a friend. And, if my observations are correct, you do, too.”

“Pf.” You spit. " _Who died and made you Frasier goddamned Crane?_ "

To this, she offers an enigmatic shrug. “While I appreciate the reference, I’m just trying to help you. At this point, I’m pointing out something that’s so obvious the aliens of the furthest ring of this universe can see it without a telescope.”

“Ha. Ha.” No effort is wasted in trying to make your laugh sound genuine. After all, it’s not. " _I’m not a fag._ "

Rose wrinkles her nose at your phrase, but she makes no further comment. Rather, in typical Lalonde form, she stubbornly forges onward, saying, “If civil discussion won’t work on you, I propose another idea. If you’re as confident as you claim to be in regards to this matter, then put your money where your ever-rambling mouth is.”

As if you’re a frightened bird, you puff your chest out. It’s not noticeable beneath your oversized shirt, but, somehow, it makes you feel more powerful. …Somehow. " _You’re on. After the next gig, I’ll have $200. I bet all of it._ "

A small smile precedes Rose’s slow, sage nodding. “Then, if that’s the case, let me clarify the rules. You have the rest of the year. If you can make it the rest of the year without succumbing to your affection for Karkat, you win. If you fail to do so, I win. Simple enough?”

" _I don’t give a single fuck about that bastard._ " Deep down, you know you’re lying. The vast majority of you, however, has complete confidence in this claim. " _This will be the easiest $200 I’ve ever made._ "

“Good. Then, you won’t mind me adding another caveat.”

" _Shoot._ "

“You and Karkat are to spend at least two hours together every day. Exceptions will be made on a case-by-case basis, and I _will_ be checking on your progress. If you don’t comply, I win by default.” As if she’s cornered you, she folds her arms across her chest. Her brows rise and it takes her a good deal of effort to contain her snickers. Nonetheless, she fails to do the latter. You can hear occasional hints of the poorly stifled laughter.

" _You’ve got a goddamned deal._ " With this, you stick your hand out.

You shake on it, and presume to congratulate yourself on what you’re absolutely _positive_ will be the quickest, easiest cash you’ve ever earned. _Ever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same deal as the last few. kudos if you like, because that's fucking rad. comments and concerns and feedback if i made a bad. [drops the rhymetime mic]


	17. And we only waste it anyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_life's a game where they're bound to beat you and time's a trick they can turn to cheat you / **and we only waste it anyway and that's the hell of it**_ [](http://www.metrolyrics.com/hell-of-it-lyrics-paul-williams.html)[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vuikvl7zt3E)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is from _Phantom of the Paradise_ which is a rad movie and you should fuckin watch it

**[i dont watch dork shows]**

 

You’re half-asleep when John’s voice jars you from your near-slumber. Your back is against the wall, your feet are propped against the back of your desk chair, and your butt is nested in a formidable dent in your mattress. The dent, by the way, is _not_ your fault. It’s been there all year, and it’s annoying as hell. Still… It's… Concerning.

“Daredevil,” John exclaims this like it's some sort of world-shattering revelation. From the look on his face, he seems to be expecting a Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts. The way he snaps his fingers rubs you as a cry for recognition. With little else to do, however, you have to answer than cry. So, reluctantly, you nod. And, to absolutely no one’s surprise, he continues, “He reminds me of Daredevil.”

" _The micromanaging superhero?_ " A raised brow indicates that your comment is a question. " _Why say that?_ "

“Stupid red shades. Tough guy attitude. Could probably break you like a twig…”

" _Hey. You can stop there._ " You cover your heart with your hands and feign offense. " _You have hurt me. That just cuts to the bone, dude._ "

“Go tell someone who believes that shit,” John snickers.

You can’t help but smile. After all, you're  not at all offended. Well… You’re mildly annoyed. After all, you could kick Karkat’s ass in seconds. All you need is a nice blade. And any sort of blade would do—sure, you specialize in swords, but even a damned butter knife would be perfect.

“He’s not that bad, you know.”

“Hm?” You lift your head and strain your neck to look at John, who just so happens to be straddling your desk chair. It’s an odd and mildly suggestive setup, but you’re not about to object to it. John’s your buddy. He’s your pal. You’d never think of him as anything more. " _Karkat?_ " Your left hand forms a ‘K,’ and the extended index and middle fingers brush against the flattened palm of your right hand.

“Yeah,” John shrugs. “Rose says she thinks he just needs a friend.”

A snort of laughter escapes you. " _Don’t we all?_ " You roll your eyes and sigh. " _Are you suggesting that I be that unfortunate fucker?_ "

“Well… Yeah…” The way he says it makes the meaning as transparent as an empty window frame. ‘Duh.’ In its most basic form, that’s his implication. A plain, simple ‘duh.’

And you don’t really appreciate it. To make this clear, you let forth a huff of indignation. " _Find someone else. I’m not here to get yelled at and insulted. I get that from Bro._ "

“Whatever.” John shrugs as if your response means nothing to him—as if he’s going to let the issue go. But, of course, he doesn’t. In fact, his persistence is damned suspicious. You don’t say that, though. You simply file the fact away in the back of your mind as he drones on, saying, “He’s been expelled from the art program.”

For some reason, your heart skips a beat. Your eyes narrow as you press him for more. " _Why? When?_ "

“Just this morning,” John’s voice is as bright as usual. Clearly, he’s not personally invested in this; clearly, he’s not too buddy-buddy with Karkat. “Rumor on campus is that he’s one of… _Those_ guys.”

" _Those guys?_ "

“Rejects.” When he fails to see some sort of recognition from you, John elaborates. “Institute of Skaia doesn’t really like people who don’t fit in. And you’d be one fucking good liar if you could say that Karkat’s normal.”

" _The same can be said for me, John._ " Your jaw is set. Your brows are furrowed. In the pit of your stomach, there’s a growing sensation of dread—a knot that, with every passing second, tightens. " _Are you saying something or trying to make another joke, because this one isn’t funny._ "

“I’m not joking.” Though it’s not surprising, it’s still odd that he’s able to present you with the tiny rulebook everyone received upon arrival. Even stranger is the fact that he can flip to the appropriate page without a second of hesitation. Upon finding the right spot, he hands the booklet to you.

And the knot in your stomach tightens so fast it snaps like an overworked rubber band.

 

* * *

 

**[Is there an express service for restraining orders?]**

If there’s one thing that you could say was the worst thing about conversing with Dave Strider, you’d say it’s his hands. They’re so damned… Fuck. Those palms are like moving sandpaper.

Still, you put up with it.

After all, you don’t have that many other people to talk to.

" _You know that big brick building on the edge of campus? The northern edge?_ " His hands move swiftly, and it takes you a disproportionate amount of effort to keep your hands atop his. At this point, you’re sure that trying to visually understand the blurred movement in front of you would be more productive, and that’s saying a whole fucking lot.

Nonetheless, you understand him. And you nod. You tap the back of his hand once, urging him to continue. It’s a system Kanaya suggested for you. Tap once to quickly convey that you’ve gotten everything and are ready to continue or that you’re in agreement. Tap twice to indicate a negative answer. Tap thrice to let the person you’re conversing with know that they need to repeat themselves.

" _It’s the old Scratch Memorial Building._ "

Though the goal of tactile signing is speed and ease for both parties, you can’t help but take your hands off of his to respond. " _Tell me something I don’t fucking know._ "

From Dave, there’s a huff of frustration. He grabs your wrists. You can’t help but notice that it’s not an aggressive or overpowering gesture; actually, it’s more of a way to tell you that he has more to say.

So, you comply. You put your hands atop his once more.

" _Have you ever seen anyone leave there before?_ "

You pause. After a good deal of thought, you provide a confident and concise answer. One tap on the back of his hand.

He returns with a small nod. Then, without any further notice, he ends the conversation. " _I need to get to class. I’ll catch you later._ "

" _See you on the flip side, loser._ "

For some odd reason, it seems that he finds this comment funny. At the very least, he laughs at it. And it’d take a whole lot of fucking self-control to claim that you don’t find it the least bit attractive. Sure, you might not hear the laugh that well, but you catch a brief glimpse of his smile. As he passes through your remaining field of vision, you see it, and it’s as frustratingly beautiful as it was the last time you saw it.

But…

It never hurts to try, does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, feedback, concerns, typo corrections, and all that are always welcome. same old endnotes shit. **and if you have any ideas for what should happen next, drop me a line ~~at science channel dot come forwardslash how it's made~~ in the comments or on [my blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com/ask/)**


	18. A child alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**a child alone** / on your own_](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/transsiberianorchestra/believe.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qr19esHksUk)]
> 
> on a technicality, dave is semi-mute

**[i just cant go five minutes without getting shat on can i]**

“Yeah? And what’re you going to do about it? Tell your parents?”

You squirm awkwardly as you try to free yourself from the grasp of some irate asshole with a soul patch. His name alludes you, though you know him. He’s in some of your classes, and you pissed him off by doing some sort of minor thing. You suppose that’s what you get when you’re in a college for people whose lives never exactly stayed on the set path.

" _Theoretically, I could tell my brother but—_ " You’re cut off before you can finish.

He grabs your left hand and twists.

You bite your lip. In the far reaches of your peripheral vision, you can see some security guards discussing whether or not to help. As it stands, the rules here say that fights should be handled on a case-by-case basis. Apparently, some jackass claimed that fights could be beneficial to both participants. The winner gets some repressed shit off their chest; the loser develops an aversion to instigating anything.

Well, you can say you’re not about to make any more mistakes around this angry bastard with wild red hair.

“What’re you going to do about it, freak?” the man demands, shoving your back harder against the large oak tree in the middle of the courtyard. “Going to say something? Or do I have to beat some intelligence into you, you fucking stupid monkey.”

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, your thought is that the solution is simple. Open your mouth. Use your goddamned words. After all, you can _technically_ speak. Just not well. Or intelligently.

Yet, you simply shake your head.

The response is a punch in the face. In the back of your mouth, you can taste something familiar. Something metallic. You open your mouth, but something tells you it’s too dry to be useful.

“You ruined my painting, you freak.” _Ah. That’s the mistake._

Now that you think about it, you recall accidentally brushing your bag against a painting. You’d apologized, and the guy had seemed cool about it. Apparently, it was all some strange, passive ruse.

You lick your lips, open your mouth again, and croak out as much of a response as you can manage. “I… I…” You stammer. If those mini copies of you that show up in cartoons are real, then yours are scrambling like frenzied retail workers trying to help some royal but loyal asshole customer.

You know the word. It’s on the tip of your tongue, but you just can’t say it. And, when you find it, it keeps scrambling itself in your mind. The letters shift. The sounds blur. “So… Say… Uh… I…”

_Smooth, Strider. Smooth._

“Damn,” announces the asshole pinning you to a tree, “You _are_ as stupid as you look. And you sound even dumber.”

“I… Sorry…” Finally, it tumbles out. It makes sense to some extent, but you’re keenly aware of the fact that it’s not a complete sentence. You know you sound like shit. Still, you said something…

“You sorry?” The man parrots your words mockingly. He spits in the grass at his feet and, by extension, yours, and smirks. His knee slams into your stomach. “Come on, idiot, you have to have more than that to say.”

“I… no…” Somehow, you manage to pull something from your ass. “No… Not… Um… Nothing.”

The man clicks his tongue and drops you to the ground, where you land with a soft thud. Yet, as you begin to breathe a sigh of relief, he turns. The tip of a steel-toed boot hits you in the chest, slamming you back against the tree. Then, he departs.

And, as soon as he’s a good yard away, you scramble back to your dorm.

* * *

 

**[I want out of this shit.]**

You have no clue what the hell his problem is, but your suitemate sure is acting like an asshole. That’s not saying that he’s not _usually_ an asshole, but he’s acting like more of an asshole than usual. Specifically, he’s been locked in the bathroom for the past two hours.

And, from that tiny space, there’s this awful sound. Shitty screeching and clicking and beeping—something you recognize as music. Well… On a technicality, it’s music. You think it’s absolute garbage. And it’s too loud to ignore.

“Turn it _down_ ,” you shout through the door. You pound your fists against the wall. “ _Turn that fucking bullshit down!_ ”

He, in return, does the opposite.

You turn to Kanaya. " _What the hell is his problem?_ "

She shrugs. " _There’s a rumor that he got into a fight of some sort._ "

You offer a sneer. " _Big fucking whoop. I got the tip of my left thumb chopped off because of a fight. He can’t be that beat up._ " To take your mind off of the matter, you sprawl out on your bed. Ignoring the pain of the electrical shocks kicking in, you pull off your sound processor. You toss it aside and open the internet browser on your phone.

Naturally, the server is heavily censored. The first page is always the school’s social network, which they like to call the Student Feed. And, as it loads, you recognize someone in the video at the top of the page.

Nonetheless, you skip playing it. You scroll down to read the article instead; you’re not up for being electrocuted _again_ for trying to put the sound processor back on.

And, below, you end up reading the full details of the fight.

As usual, since it was deemed a necessary fight, it’s an official school publication. The affair is documented with loving care to detail, and everything is laid out in black and white.

At least, it’s tailored to the school’s needs. Dave is the rebellious party at fault; the dude pinning him to a tree is just someone who “should have tried talking it out first.” Despite that declaration, the article still praises the action. Riveting. Intriguing. Something that won’t be forgotten on campus for quite a while. It’s all there on the front page of the campus’ secure social network, and it’s something that makes your stomach churn.

By all stretches of the imagination, he’s not your friend. You don’t like him. You _refuse_ to like him. But, still…

Your conscience drives you to scribble out a note—an invitation to come over to your room and talk things out when he’s ready—and slip it under the bathroom door.

Then, figuring "correctly" that this request won’t have an answer any time soon, you retreat to the dining hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same thing as usual. comments, feedback, and concerns are welcome and appreciated. feel free to call out mistakes and typos. suggestions for future chapters, things you'd like to see, and all that sort of stuff is also welcome.


	19. At the heart of everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_the world and all its sorrow / **at the heart of everything**_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-song-of-purple-summer-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQL2hifN2nI)]

**[I’m honestly so fucking confused right now. It's damned amazing.]**

You’re not exactly sure how you found it, but you did. It was buried amongst the shitload of paperwork you received when you arrived. You’re sure you must have seen it—after all, it’s a filled CD packet stapled to Dave’s information sheet—but you probably discarded it.

You weren’t all that interested in befriending your obnoxious, mute roommate then. And you weren’t about to dig into his personal life for no reason whatsoever.

Now, though, you’re curious.

 _Profile Interview._ That’s the label on the CD, and it reminds you of the fact that Dave’s face sheet was blank. Instead, scrawled across the top in black marker, was a simple message. “Mental deficits required a video interview.”

Until now, you’ve never actually looked at Dave’s info. Now that you are, it’s already getting off to a rocky start. The phrasing of the statement rubs you in all the wrong ways possible. It makes your stomach churn and lights a tiny spark of anger deep within your chest.

Ignoring that, you pop the disk into your laptop and hit play.

You’re presented with a familiar image. This time, though, Dave sports a sling on his heavily bandaged right arm. His left eye is obviously black, and the date in the corner indicates that this is from a good three months prior to the beginning of the school year.

“Name?” A voice asks the question from somewhere out of the camera’s view. At least, you’re assuming as much. You don’t see the originator of the voice, and you’re going purely off of the sporadic, finicky AUX connection between your cochlear implant and your laptop.

The familiar blond shifts uncomfortably. He quickly signs his response, only to be met with a slap on the wrist with a yardstick. Having understood the sentiment of this, he begins to slowly piece together some sort of response. The beginning is little more than scrambled and insignificant noisemaking. Stammers. Hemming and hawing.

Then, a good three minutes into the video, he speaks up. “I… Um… Dave… Name Dave Strider.”

“Good.” There’s a thirty second stretch of static. Nonetheless, you can make out the important part of the question. “…age and date of birth?”

“Born… Um… Oh… Shit. I…” He tangles his fingers in his hair as he continues trying to find the answer. “December third. Born December third. Nineteen years.”

“You’re majoring in…?”

He responds with a blank stare. “Music?”

That’s as far as you get.

The sound of the door to your room opening interrupts you, and you slam your laptop shut. Spinning around, you find yourself facing him.

He seems to have returned to his usual disposition. The same bored look. The same fuck-all posture. Hands in his pockets. You’re guessing and hoping that it’s an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

" _What the hell are you doing in my room, Strider?_ " Your reply is more aggressive than you intended it to be.

He, however, overlooks that. He flashes the note you shoved under the door a solid twenty-four hours ago and, after folding it into a paper airplane, flicks it in your direction. Unfortunately, the poorly crafted thing smashes nose-first into the ground within seconds of takeoff. One large, wobbly loop is as far as it made it. As you expect, Dave shrugs this off, too. He withdraws his other hand to respond. " _You have a minute?_ "

" _Yeah. Sure._ " You scramble over to the dining table and pull the chair away. When you return to your desk, you position the chair across from yours.

 

* * *

 

**[look i know youre expecting some sort of grand emotional thing but its not happening]**

As Dave Strider, you’re determined to undermine any and all attempts from your suitemate to open up. No. You’re not letting this… strangely… attractive…

Oh, fuck.

Never mind that.

You have business to attend to.

You spin the chair set out for you around, straddle it, and let him rest his hands atop yours as you provide exactly what he doesn’t expect. " _So, we’ve got another gig soon. One week._ "

Though he returns with a look of confusion, he quickly regains his composure. He rolls his eyes before answering. " _Whatever. Is this the same dump as last time?_ "

Here, you can’t help but smile at what you have to say next. " _Actually, they liked us so damned much that they referred us to someone else. We’ll be playing at the Beerbucket._ "

" _Doesn’t that just sound like the epitome of musical culture?_ " His response is clearly sarcastic. His tongue sticks out slightly, and he keeps flashing you the middle finger. Whenever he can slip it into his signs, he does.

Naturally, it’s your job to defend the venue. For one thing, you love beer. Beer is a gift from the heavens; beer is what flows through the rivers of the eternal afterlife. Secondly, they _are_ paying you, so you feel mildly responsible for upholding some sort of reputation. " _I hear that Beerbucket has a sophisticated clientele_."

" _Kiss my ass._ " His hand forms a squashed “O” shape—something like the formation used to mimic someone talking—and points the “lips” towards his butt. It’s a crude and immature gesture, but you can’t exactly discredit it. You’d do something like that, too.

Still, you won’t let such… such… downright scandalous things be signed under the roof that’s technically attached to your roof. So, you wag your finger. Then, with as haughty an air as you can manage, you offer your condemnation. " _That is crude, rude, and fucking offensive. I demand an apology at once._ "

In return, he aims low. " _How about I demand to know what happened in the courtyard and why the hell it’s all over the school’s social media site._ "

You find yourself blushing. You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you’re perfectly aware of how visible it is against your pale skin. " _It’s… nothing…_ "

" _Really?_ " He quirks his brow. " _Really?_ " Somehow, that brow raises even higher. It’s something you thought impossible, but you’re clearly wrong. Because you’re witnessing it rising higher.

" _It’s none of your business._ " With this, you rise to your feet, hoping it will shake him off.

Unfortunately, he catches on. Though it’s a graceless action, he, too, rises. He follows you and slaps his hands atop yours again.

You only repeat yourself. " _It’s none of your damned business. I just came to tell you about some business issues. Good fucking bye._ " Again, you pull yourself free. This time, before he can counter this, you sprint. Through the bathroom door and into your room, where you slam and lock your side’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blah blah blah standard comments and feedback are appreciated. really, though, thanks for reading.


	20. I have seen in strange young eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**i have seen in strange young eyes** / familiar tears_](http://www.lyricsmania.com/old_souls_lyrics_paul_williams.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f19L5H3eqzQ)]

**[I eat fools like you for breakfast.]**

" _If I had a dollar for every time Dave Strider confused the hell out of me, I’d have…_ " As you lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, you pause. You try to think of a more eloquent way to say what you want to say, but fail. You ball both of your hands into fists and hold them at shoulder level. Then, with a look of extreme exasperation, you open them, sprawling your fingers out and apart from one another. " _So many._ "

“Well…” Kanaya says this aloud. Though you usually don’t care for verbal conversations, you’re in an oddly lazy mood. Or, perhaps, lazy isn’t the word. It takes a hell of a lot of effort to listen with your shitty implant, but it also takes a lot of work to crane your neck every time she speaks. So, you’re compromising. “Perhaps he’s not ready to share everything about his life with you at the moment. You barely know each other.”

" _So?_ " You scoff. " _I barely know him, and I’m trying to help him out. And I hate the bastard._ "

“That’s not the point,” Kanaya groans. “How about I put it this way: from what I understand, Dave isn’t exactly the most…” here, she hesitates. Eventually, though, she finds something to say. “Rose tells me that Dave was involved in…” Again, she falters.

It’s strange. From what you know of Kanaya—which, given that she’s your interpreter _and_ that she follows you around for hours on end every day, would be a lot—she doesn’t hesitate much. She’s an upfront person who speaks her mind with fluid ease. To find her stumbling so much is suspicious, and that’s saying it gently.

It’s enough to prompt you to let forth a snort of laughter as you sarcastically respond. " _What? Did the fucker get dropped on his head as a kid?_ "

“All things considered, that joke is in surprisingly poor taste.” Her response is dry enough to sound as if it’s a joke. But, at the same time, you somehow know it’s not.

You shrug her commentary off with a snort of contempt, though. You say a lot of things in poor taste. " _All I’m saying is that there’s something up with this Dave asshole, and I want to know what it is._ "

“There are certain things that you shouldn’t pry into, Karkat,” she warns. “This is one of them.”

" _To hell with your advice._ " As helpful as she can be, Kanaya can be a real pain in your ass at times. Sure, her advice usually ends up being spot on, but you’ll be damned if you don’t find that out by yourself.

* * *

 

**[my usual breakfast meal is nails for toughness and ice to stay cool]**

“Dave, there’s no way he knows anything about anything,” John reassures you.

You respond with a panicked sound. Something between a yelp and a growl and a groan. " _Oh,_ " you recline in your seat, lifting the front feet from the floor. " _Oh. He knows._ "

“You’re being a fucking weirdo, Dave,” your longtime friend insists, “What does it matter if he knows anything about you?”

" _What does it matter?_ " You repeat his comment. " _My entire life, John. I’ve got an image to uphold._ "

“Of what? The aloof mute kid?” John snickers.

You let forth a long, annoyed sigh. " _You’re not helping any._ "

As much as you appreciate John’s company and silently revel in your time together—as, of course, complete bros—you have to admit that he’s absolute shit at giving any sort of useful advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **sorry for the short chapter, but i promise that things will be picking up soon. stick with it. comments, feedback, concerns, and corrections are always welcome and appreciated.**
> 
> in the spirit of the story i've reformatted this and removed all caps for easier reading. and by "removed all caps" i really mean i threw it to CSS, so the all caps sections are actually written regularly. tested "kinda" for screen reader (is that... is that one word or two?) compatibility. by the way, making the google UK male voice on [ChromeVox](https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/chromevox/kgejglhpjiefppelpmljglcjbhoiplfn?) say things like "dickbutt" is possibly the funniest thing i've ever done with a computer. technology is amazing. praise technology. praise the google UK voice having to read "dickbutt."
> 
> **i've also reformatted the dialogue. if an entire section of dialogue is in italics, it's sign language.**


	21. It's the strangers in your life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**it's the strangers in your life** / that you'd never thought you'd meet_](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/transsiberianorchestra/thisiswhoyouare.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4OB1ehWFKo)]

**[i will now astound and amaze everyone by flaunting my right to remain silent]**

"Dave…? Dave…?" There's a long, pointed sigh from the seemingly distant voice. Then, without much warning, your thoughts are shot to hell with a singular exclamation. "Dave goddamned Strider!"

You, in your haste, fumble with your notebook. It tumbles onto the floor, where it lands in a somewhat open position. The pages reveal nothing but pure music. No words. No notations. Only sounds. While you're always one to flaunt your musical prowess, you're also the type to avoid letting people know your secrets. And, if anything, these pages are veritable secrets.

So, you waste no time in gathering your book. Only once it's in your hands, closed, and pressed to your chest do you turn to face the source of the sound.

You offer a simple wave.

In return, your suitemate offers you a glare that could kill a horrific, massive, and fully armed space giant. His hands begin to move. _"You've yet to tell me a single fucking thing about what happened in the courtyard."_

 _"I'm not obligated to. Since when was I obligated to tell you all about my entire life?"_ you counter. To show your annoyance, you turn your back to him. It's a childish and wholly pointless thing to do, but it makes you feel good. It makes you feel _damned_ good.

He, however, is not so easily fooled. Without any hesitation, he simply sidesteps back into your field of vision. He then continues from where he left off, signing, _"You are being the most immature asswipe I've ever had the displeasure of dealing with."_

 _"Your point?"_ You hold your position. You're not about to let this… this… relative stranger know anything about you. _"Why do you care so much, anyhow?"_

Here, he at least dignifies you with an honest answer. His initial answer, at least, is truthful. It's little more than a large shrug and an utterance of a tiny sound. A  _hm_ of sorts. However, he quickly finds some semblance of an excuse. _"Aren't we fake dating for the stage?"_ As his hands move, he inadvertently smashes against one of the cymbals.

You dampen it; you're trying to keep this whole thing a secret, not broadcast it to the entire world. And, as far as you know, a run-down old house isn't a very common place for band practice. On the most basic level, the acoustics of an abandoned house suck ass. With your free hand, you reply, _"I admit that that's true. But it's purely for show."_

 _"It's not as if I'm asking for a twelve page, double-spaced, twelve point font essay on your life. And I'm not asking for citations, either."_ He scoffs at your suggestion. _Pfft_. Then, he continues. _"Just… You can talk?"_

 

* * *

 

**[You know what… Maybe… Maybe I'll just…]**

He's a bundle of nerves. An absolute rubber band ball of high-strung everything. His pale fingers rap against the top of one of the tom-toms, and his stance screams anxiety. All weight leaned on his left side. Hand on hip. Brows furrowed. Jaw locked.

 _"Strider?"_ you inquire, fingers hovering hesitantly in the air.

With stiff shoulders, he responds, _"What do you want to want to know?"_

Somehow, this all makes you reconsider your stance. He's so damned guarded about this; there has to be a reason. At the same time, your thoughts wander back to Kanaya. You find yourself repeating her warning. Who are you to shove yourself into his personal life?

But, at the same time…

At the same time…

 _"I'll spare you the details,"_ he offers you this much before you can make a final decision—before you can so much as say something. And, to your surprise, he continues, _"I can speak, but it's hard as hell. And I sound like hell."_ As he ends, he offers you a stern glare. _"Tell no one."_ From here, his hands rise to just below shoulder level. Both hands are in an 'O' shape, and they move outwards. His right hand drops, and his left hand forms a one. _"No one."_ Presumably, he's repeating this for emphasis.

Not that he needed to. You understood the gravity of his words without it. _"That makes sense…"_

 _"I sure as hell hope it does. Because I'm not saying it again."_ After offering this response, Dave lets forth a long sigh. However, as you'd expect, he rebounds swiftly. _"Now that I've spilled my heart to you, you spill your heart to me. Tell me something about yourself. Something juicy."_

You can't help but hesitate. _"Juicy?"_ To make sure your intent is clear, you quirk your brows. You open your mouth slightly. _"Oranges are juicy. Cranberries are juicy. My life is not fucking juicy."_

He huffs. _"Everyone's life is juicy. You cut into someone's life and it sweats like a fat Christmas turkey."_

Ignoring his imagery, you acquiesce to his request. _"I have nothing to say, Strider. Nothing."_ It's honest. After all, you don't really have anything interesting in your history. You fought some people. Got arrested a few times. Nothing more. _"What do you want to know?"_

 _"Have you ever dated?"_ There's a smug smile on his face. It's as if he couldn't help but pry into _something_. Anything. _"You're a fine catch."_ With this, he pauses. No, more accurately, he freezes. His cheeks light up a soft pink as he hastily adds, _"Aesthetically speaking. Completely objective. And all I'm saying is that you should have been snatched up more than a few times. And, if you weren't, then you must have had some great nights."_

You can't help but cringe. You've never been into sex. It's… Well, for lack of a better word, it's icky. Not the most eloquent of words, but it's the most descriptive. _"Disgusting."_ You shake your head and wave your hands in front of your face, as if this will somehow clear your mind of the shit you've heard. _"Just… Just shut up, Strider."_

He smirks. He waggles his brows. _"How modest of you."_

 _"Just shut up."_ To subdue him, you start to hammer out a standard 4/4 beat. Nothing fancy. Nothing original.

But, from what you can see, it's working. Dave's hands stop moving and start fiddling with his guitar. Within a matter of minutes, he's picking out some sort of improvised tune.

And you, having avoided a hell of inevitable awkwardness, breathe a sigh of pure relief.

Nonetheless, you can't help but think about him.

You wonder if _he_ has ever dated. If _he_ has ever…

Oh. Oh! Dear God, no!

You once again shove these thoughts to the back of your mind. Instead, you invest your entire self in your drumming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **hope you're enjoying this little story. comments, feedback, suggestions, and concerns are welcome!**


	22. The minute you do it, with fingers so blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**the minute you do it, with fingers so blind** / you remove every bit of the blue from your mind_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-mirrorblue-night-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4mAo-u0ZbxM)]

**[Let's get drunk]**

Possibly because John is unexpectedly popular around campus and because you're strongly associated with him, you've been invited to some sort of outrageous party.

Yes. A party. On this campus.

The whole thing will be thrown in the basement of the largest frat house on campus. The subterranean space was always rumored to be some sort of grand palace. An underground haven for all sorts of illegal activities and outrageous debauchery. This is, after all, a college. And what is college for, if not for some experimentation?

Now that you're here, though, it's beyond what you ever could have imagined. Huge, arched ceilings. Stained glass windows illuminated by lights hidden in alcoves. Surround sound throughout the space. And, above all, there's a goddamned second floor.

Yeah.

That's right.

A two story basement. And the second story features an open walkway. It's all gorgeous. Amazing. The perfect atmosphere for some classic partying. This is one hell of a basement, and you have a feeling that it'll be one hell of a place to get rip-roaring drunk. And, after all the shit you've been through in just the first few weeks, you're damned ready for that release.

 

* * *

 

**[I enjoy long walks on the beach, and pushing people into the fucking ocean.]**

Honestly, you don't know why you came to this party. You've never been a real partier. You've never even _liked_ partying. It's a loud, obnoxious activity. Everyone pesters you to speak or sign and, usually, you don't know a single goddamned person. Besides, wearing a cochlear implant at a party is hell. At least, in your opinion…

Besides, you're not really one for alcohol.

Why get drunk? It's so much more fun watching the shit that other people do when they're drunk. Dave is a perfect example; for the past hour, he's been wandering around acting like even more of a buffoon than usual.

The fact that there's this weird game of so-called "booth or dare" going on only makes it funnier.

From what you've gleaned, when the empty beer bottle lands on someone, they can either take the traditional dare or "booth it." The booth in question is a cardboard box on top of a massive lazy Susan. The participant is jammed into the box, the lid is closed, and they're spun around in what might just be the most dangerous way possible. From what you've seen, they puke just over half of the time.

Of the twelve times he's been picked by the bottle, Dave has only picked the booth twice.

The dares he's completed are…

Well, to say the least, the dares are questionable. Nonetheless, you can recite them in order. He was first dared to speak, which he was drunk enough to do. After being thoroughly mocked, however, he seems to have been accepted into the party's elite. Since then, he's chugged three expired wine coolers, eaten a cockroach, made out with a pineapple, indulged in the delicacy of moldy cheese, and kissed four different people.

If their reactions are anything to go by, though, he's actually pretty good at that last bit.

Not that you'd care.

After all, you're only here to watch the shit hit the fan.

Right now, you're watching the bottle come to a slow stop. For the thirteenth time, it lands on Dave.

And, as fortune—or, perhaps, misfortune—would have it, he picks dare. There's a muffled murmur amongst the crowd; you can't make any of it out.

What happens next, however, says everything for you.

Dave stumbles from his perch atop one of the barstools. With all the grace of the drunken monkey that he is, he staggers in your direction. Then, without much fanfare, he grabs you by the front of your shirt and his lips slam gracelessly against yours.

Naturally, you shove him away from you and punch him in the face. Cradling his freshly bloodied nose, he stumbles backwards. After a few seconds, he stares at you with a look of wide-eyed confusion.

 _"What the hell was that for?"_ he signs. _"I was just following the dare, dude. Lighten up."_

To be completely honest, it wasn't an entirely negative feeling. Sure, you wholly disapproved of the fact that he didn't even bother asking for consent. But, at the same time, you've been trying to ignore a massive crush for this jackass for a while. To have him kiss you is to find yourself in the middle of a sandwich. A sandwich where one slice of bread is euphoria and the other is pure terror.

After all, you can't fall for this guy. You're holding out for someone perfect. A Prince Charming able to sweep you off your feet with little more than a simple greeting. And, clearly, Dave Strider isn't that person. Though, you suppose that a one-off college fling wouldn't exactly ruin your love life.

No!

No! That's all preposterous.

"Don't touch me, you fucking idiot," you growl.

He simply shrugs. _"Yeah. Probably should have asked. So, hey, can I make out with you? My party credibility is kind of resting on all of this, so it'd be really nice if you'd say yeah."_

"Fuck off." Despite the fact that you want to say yes, you deny his advance. You only came here to watch drunk people do shit; you didn't come here to actually be involved in any of that shit.

"Aw," he whines. He sticks his bottom lip out like a petulant child. _"Please?"_ His facial expression is indicative of a question as his flattened right hand moves in a clockwise circular motion.

"No," you repeat. This time, you back yourself up with sign. You firmly bring the middle and index fingers of your left hand down on your thumb.

 _"Please?"_ he repeats.

You return with a long, exasperated sigh. _"You're not leaving until I leave or you get this damned kiss, are you?"_

He smirks. _"I'll follow you."_

 _"Fine."_ After this, you fold your arms across your chest. You allow yourself to be pulled into a kiss with Dave goddamned Strider, and…

Well…

Actually, it's not too bad.

His lips are soft, and he's not at all aggressive. It's obviously something he's doing just for show—something more akin to a stage kiss than a real one.

To the outside observer, it's intense.

In reality, it's little more than a prolonged peck.

Even so, when he withdraws, you find yourself wanting more. And you hate that feeling. You hate that feeling with the burning passion of a thousand dying, spiteful suns.

You sure as hell won't let that show, though. No, you go along with his game. You push him away, exclaiming, "You goddamned creep." Then, with no other ideas of what to do or where to go, you run.

You get the hell out of that basement and back to your dorm room. And the minute you're in the dorm room, you call Kanaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> always ask permission / comments, feedback, concerns, and all that are always welcome. suggestions for future chapters are also welcome.


	23. Well, you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**well, you know** / we all want to change the world_](http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/acrosstheuniverse/revolution.htm) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72jK7qzdXDc)]

**[well at least it was a great party]**

"You actually _kissed_ him?" John asks, his eyes wider than the largest flying saucer ever seen. "Did he like it?"

"Ack." The sound is the strangled combination of an attempt to dismiss John's questions crossed with a cough. " _How the hell would I know? He ran away._ " With this much said, you wave your hand towards the light switch. Your still-groggy mind gropes for what you want to say and, eventually, your hands move, saying something that resembles a loose version of what you're really trying to get across. _"Turn off the light. I'm hungover as fuck."_

John snickers. A haughty I-told-you-so look spreads across his freckled features. "Of course you are, you drank enough to drown a sailor."

_"Let's not turn this into some sort of attack on my character."_

John sighs. He rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. In a slow, dramatic way, he shakes his head. "Dave, you need to wake up and smell the gay flowers."

A huff of frustration escapes you. How dare John try and talk you into this? He knows what you have going on. He knows what Bro is like. _"I'm not about to smell any goddamned flowers."_ As you sign this, the hairs on the back of your neck bristle. _"I can't do this right now. Later, maybe. Not now."_

"You'll have to face the music eventually," John shrugs. "If you're fake dating him in the band, word's going to get out eventually. It's not like this is some sort of massive, standard-issue place."

Though you want to kick him in the gut, you have to admit that he's right. News travels fast around here, and rumors only travel faster. Hesitantly, you raise your hands to sign, _"I hate it when you're right."_

"Well, it's a rare occasion, so I'm going to gloat while I can." Here, John folds his arms across his chest. A smug smile crosses his face, and his brows shoot upwards. It's the perfect look of cockiness. You know what he's saying. He doesn't even need to hint at it; his body language screams it.

I told you so.

 

* * *

 

**[I hate blonds. And I especially hate blonds with soft lips.]**

You cannot believe that you gave him your blessing. You can't believe you went through with it. Above all, you can't believe you actually _liked_ it.

The past is the past, though. You can't go back and change it. Now, if you could, you'd punch yourself in the face. But you can't. The best you can do at this point is to sit on your bed, twiddle your thumbs, and try and figure out what the hell is happening to you. What the hell you're feeling.

 _"He's nice to look at. I hate admitting it, but he's pretty damned nice. It's a stupid, over-the-top douchebag sort of nice, but it's nice."_ As you finish, you breathe a heavy sigh. You throw your hands in the air. _"This is too damned much for right now."_

Kanaya, too, sighs. She runs her fingers through her hair. Tipping her chair back, she responds, "Karkat, you're being unreasonable. Let's just try to think this through like rational adults, we—"

"I _am_ a rational adult," you thunder, leaping to your feet. From there, you revert to signing. _"I can't date this asshole. He's not my type. He's too abrasive and cocky and… And…"_ You hesitate, your motions catching like a scratched record. The fingers of your left hand are spread apart. As you move your hand to the left, you close your fingers and press them against your thumb. Again and again you do this, until, finally, you come to a conclusion. _"He's an idiot."_

For all this, you receive only a shrug from your interpreter and confidant. "But you liked it, right?"

With a great deal of reluctance, you nod. Under your breath, you growl out a simple reply, "Yes."

"Exactly," Kanaya says this as if it's the answer to every problem in the world. She smiles as if she's found a way to bring about a true utopia. "I'm not going to tell you what to do, Karkat, but I recommend that you try and talk to him."

 _"Oh. Yeah,"_ you respond, your wrist bending so that your left fist bobs up and down, _"Who died and elected you the next Frasier Crane? You're picking up too much from Rose."_

"I might be," she shrugs, "But I'm only saying this to help you."

 

* * *

 

**[Bitch I might be]**

When you answered the knock on your bathroom door, you honestly didn't expect to see him standing there. You didn't expect to see him in an expensive-looking red bathrobe.

His hair is wet, and it clings to his face. For once, it's tame. It's flat.

The way his robe is tied shows his chest, and you have to admit that it's not all that bad. It's not toned or anything, but it's got the major benefit of not being a carpet of creepy chest hair.

Shit.

Why are you looking there?

As you continue to stare, you notice him tugging at the collar of his robe. You try your best to convince yourself that this is the reason for your fixation on his chest.

Meanwhile, he clears his throat. His free hand rubs the back of his neck as he says aloud, "I think we should probably talk."

You simply nod. _"Fair enough,"_ you respond silently. _"I'm guessing I know what it's about, too?"_

"Yeah," he coughs. Then, he reverts back to signing. _"Your head would need to be six feet under-fucking-ground to not know what it's about."_

An indignant huff. You run your fingers through your hair. _"Whatever."_ With flattened hands, the palms of which point to your chest, you alternate between holding them close to your chest and holding them away. You do this thrice.

He responds by quirking his brow. Without any further questioning, he pulls up a chair. He straddles it and offers a swift, concise explanation. _"You want to maybe go to dinner with me later?"_

 _"Yeah. Where? The fucking dining hall?"_ A snort of laughter escapes you, and you can't help but roll your eyes. _"What is this? Some sort of shitty prank?"_

"Oh," Karkat mutters under his breath, "I wish it was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same thing with comments, feedback, and concerns. i really didn't check this one, so there are probably a hell of a lot of typos **comments on what you want to see in future chapters (aka suggestions) are also super welcome and appreciated**


	24. The sea was so violent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**the sea was so violent** / the crew went below_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/there-once-was-a-pirate-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Brp6H3_zMr4)]

**[I can tie my own damned tie]**

_"Stop,"_ you sign. You bring your right hand down against your open left palm, holding the two at a right angle. Normally, you do this gently; now, you're practically chopping your hand against the other like it's a plank of wood. _"Stop. Stop. Stop!"_

With a loud, exasperated sigh, you finally speak aloud. Your voice sounds strange to you. It's a foreign sensation. "Stop!" you exclaim aloud.

Rose looks at you with furrowed brows. The edges of her lips twitch downwards, yet, when she speaks, her voice carries a singsong lilt. "Dave, it needs to be tightened. It's drooping."

You bat her hands away from you. _"No."_ The middle and forefinger of your left hand drop down, hitting your thumb. _"No."_ From here, you continue, _"I want it like that. I don't give a shit about this date. I'm just doing it because he seemed so damned pitiful about it. Stop touching…"_ A yelp of surprise escapes you as she suddenly tightens your tie against your will.

"There," she says, sounding quite pleased with herself, "I fixed it."

 _"You fixed nothing."_ You let forth an indignant huff and turn on your heel. From here, you march purposefully out of the room.

The minute the door clicks shut behind you, you loosen the tie again. You're Dave goddamned Strider, not some desperate jerk sneaking out to go on some wild gay date.

Hell, this isn't even a date. This is you being a halfway decent person. Anyone would say yes if they were faced with a look as pitiful as the one Karkat was shooting you. Even Satan himself would do it.

 

* * *

 

**[Where the hell else would we go besides Mc-fucking-Donald's?]**

The man next to you is loud enough for even you to understand him. His words come through as loud static in your ears, and you can barely stand it.

"No, Jeb, I got a whole wad of peaches. Yeah. Yeah, they're real. They're legit peaches. What… No! Are you accusing me of selling you fake peaches? No. Nah. This ain't some shit deal."

Tapping your fingers against the sticky red tabletop, you let forth a long sigh. You straighten your tie and tug at the red vest you've chosen. Black slacks. Red vest. Black tie. It's a standard, classic look. Sure, you're overdressed as fuck, but you're at goddamned McDonald's; you might as well try and look like you put in some effort.

"Fuck you, Jeb. You can't just come in and attack a man's integrity like that. I love my peaches like children. They ain't some fucking wax fakes."

 _Dear God,_ you find the thought flitting through your head as you wait, _Take your damned peaches and leave._

Finally, you see him stumbling across the parking lot.

You can't help but laugh as he slams into the door, which he clearly assumed to be a push door. Finally, he staggers inside. He sits down. The minute his ass hits the stool, he starts to fidget anxiously.

 _"Shit day, I assume?"_ you sign. You offer a wry smile.

He simply shrugs. _"I almost got caught three times and I shouldn't even be here."_ His honesty is admirable, if not a bit shocking.

 _"You shouldn't be here? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"_ If there's one thing you can count on when it comes to McDonalds restaurants in rich college towns, it's that they always have bright lighting; you don't even have to squint to see Dave's signing. In fact, you notice that he's wearing a black shirt instead of his usual red and white. Against this new black shirt, it's a lot easier to see his hands move.

He blinks. After a few seconds, a look of realization crosses his face. His mouth drops open a bit and his brows rise. When this finally subsides, he responds. _"It's not you. I'm just not interested in other dudes."_

Though the gag you try to suppress still makes it out, you manage to prevent yourself from punching him in the face. In fact, that second point is amazing; your natural reaction to something this questionable is to throw a punch. _"Why bother coming here, then?"_

 

* * *

 

**[Oh shit I think I did a bad]**

_"It's not you, it's me."_ You've never backtracked faster than this in your entire life. Not even after you punched Bro in the face that one time, and that ended with a variety of broken bones for you. _"I phrased that badly."_

Damn. He looks like someone just stepped on his tombstone while wearing shoes with soles coated in chewed gum. He looks like a puppy being scolded. Damn. Sensitive bastard.

Not that your confusion towards his reaction makes you feel any better. If anything, it makes you feel worse. _"I'm sorry."_ With your right hand forming an 'A,' you move it against your chest in a clockwise motion. You do this a few times. _"Stop looking like a sad clown."_

He waves your commentary aside. _"I should have figured. No one is ever interested in me."_ A long, poignant sigh escapes him. Then, as if nothing has happened, he returns to his usual self. His brows furrow and the edges of his lips turn downwards. When he resumes signing, it's precise and swift. _"We might as well get to know each other for our next gig."_

 _"Makes sense."_ You shrug. You're not about to backtrack to whatever weird emotional shit was going down with Karkat. _"So… How did you know you were gay?"_

_"I had sex with my ex-boyfriend."_

"Oh." You vocalize. Honestly, you weren't expecting such an upfront answer. Sure, Deaf culture can be blunt, but his answer is beyond that. It's in your face. If you had to take a guess, you might even say that it's intentional. _"That would do it."_

 _"How do you know you're not gay? You don't seem like someone the girls would be clamoring for in school."_ He concludes with a quirked brow and a subtle smirk.

After a brief moment to pick yourself up after such a low blow, you offer your own reply. _"I can't be gay. I'm a Strider."_

 _"And, yet, your stupid band persona is dating me."_ Karkat's grin widens. If he were a snake, his venom would sure as fuck be enough to kill a man. No. It would kill twenty men. A single drop could slay an army. _"Whatever. I won't ask."_

 _"You're attractive,"_ you admit. It's not a lie. You can appreciate his aesthetic. His physical appearance. _"You've got a nice voice."_ Again, it's not a lie. You like the sound of his voice; of course, you also hate your own voice. But that's beside the point. The point is that…

 _"I have a nice voice?"_ He frowns. His brows furrow even more than usual. _"I've never had anyone say that to me before. It's probably a lie, but I'm still flattered."_

You shake your head. _"It's really not a lie,"_ you reassure him. _"You have a nice voice."_

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he ignores you. _"Then I might as well admit I like how you sign. It's smooth. Kind of lyrical."_

 _"I wanted to be a poet when I was a kid,"_ you admit sheepishly. _"Bro told me that was for shitheads, so I dropped it."_

Karkat rolls his eyes. A snort of some unidentifiable emotion escapes him. _"Your brother sounds like a jackass."_

 _"You don't even know half of it,"_ you sigh and rise from your seat. _"I'm getting some food. I might as well get food to make up for this awkward soul-searching."_

 _"Makes enough sense."_ Karkat, too, rises. He follows you to the counter. He orders a Big Mac; you order some chicken nuggets. Afterwards, you both eat in complete silence.

Complete, awkward silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **you can catch up on shit and see what other type of shit i do besides writing about davekat at my blog** ](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com)


	25. You can kiss your sorry ass goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_yeah, you're fucked all right and all for spite / **you can kiss your sorry ass goodbye**_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/totally-fucked-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[ **x**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ms8EZbGDt1Q)]

**[Is this what you call freedom]**

It snows on the first day of fall break. The streets are dusted with a blanket of white. Footprints crisscross from building to building; some prints are trailed by a pair of thin lines. The suitcases of the so-called "Outstanding Students." These specifically chosen suckers are allowed to go home.

Not that you do. And you're not one of those chosen ones anyhow. And, if you were, you'd rather eat your own shit.

Of course, John gets a pass. He always had one. What reason would the school have to punish him? He came to support you. Not that you see him that often; both of you have different schedules. You run with different crowds. He's with the rule-abiding model citizens. You're with the so-called "bad" kids. The "bad" crowd.

Rose and Kanaya are also given time off, and they sure as fuck deserve it. You're not complaining about that.

What you're complaining about is that you're stuck here. And the only person you know left on campus is _him_. Your suitemate.

It doesn't help that you're not on good terms with him right now. Actually, you've both been avoiding each other like the plague. In fact, if you think about it, he might as well be the plague. Your only association with him is for band stuff. And, at gigs, you'll act the part. But the reality is that you're barely talking to one another.

Now, though, you've got a full week of nothing. No one is here to hang out with. No one is here to do damned near anything with.

So, instead, you've settled. You've settled with hanging out with him. Right now, you're in a café with him. Nothing but a tense silence has passed between the two of you for the past hour. Only the utterance of an occasional order from Karkat fills that silence, and it does a shit job of that.

"Ahem." You clear your throat. You knock your knuckles against the table.

He glances at you and quirks his brow. He nods slowly, as if to encourage you to speak.

So, you do. _"What's been going on lately?"_ you sign sheepishly.

He shrugs. He sips at his coffee.

_"Anything interesting?"_

He rolls his eyes. After setting aside his drink, he offers a response. _"Yeah. You're trying to talk to me."_

After a second to regain your social footing, you nod. _"That's understandable."_ Again, you pause. _"Are we going to keep this passive-aggressive bullshit going forever?"_

 _"As far as I'm concerned."_ Karkat shrugs. _"But, if you're so fucking intent on discussing asinine shit, go for it."_

 _"It's cold."_ After this comment, you mentally kick yourself. The weather? Really? That's the best you can come up with? Fucking amazing. _"I mean…"_ you begin, only to pause and wiggle your fingers awkwardly as you search for something more to say. After a while, you blurt out the first coherent thought you have. _"You like Kanaya?"_

He huffs. With his arms folded, he offers a roll of his eyes. _"We're not dating or anything, if that's what you're asking. She's a good interpreter."_

"Hm." You hum. _"Rose is, too."_

Here, he begins to rap his fingers against the table. As if to emphasize how fed up he is with talking about anything with you, he responds verbally. "Do you have anything more to say than the asinine prattle you're shitting out right now?"

_"Are you doing anything later?"_

"Does it _look_ like I have much to do later?" He attempts to emphasize his words, but it only ends up being louder than usual. From there, he begins to rap his fingers against the fake plastic table you're at. "Anything else?"

_"You want to maybe hang out later?"_

"I'd rather gag myself with a knife," he growls. "But, considering the circumstances, it looks like there's nothing else to do."

"So…" you begin aloud before shifting to sign, _"Is that a yes?"_

"Unfortunately, it is."

 

* * *

 

**[Maybe that intersection would've been a nicer place to hang out after all]**

"Yeah," Karkat scolds you aloud as he rifles through the faded playing cards you smuggled into the school with you. You'd hidden them by hiding them in your medicine bag, which security wasn't legally allowed to check. Something about medical privacy. "Let's play fucking Uno with the legally blind kid. This is a fucking great idea. What the hell is this card?"

With this, he leans across the table and shoves a "pick up four" card in your face. He rolls his eyes and slaps it atop the pile in the middle of the table, all while continuing to rant.

"Are you this fucking incompetent? Really? I can't fucking believe that any singular person on this planet can be this goddamned dense."

 _"It's not my fault. You had time to object. I asked you five times if you could see well enough to play Uno,"_ you respond. To punctuate your statement, you offer a small shrug.

He returns with an indignant huff. "Well, you could have asked more delicately. Besides you refuse to turn on any lights in this fucking room. What am I supposed to do? Magically feel the print on the card like some sort of texture wizard?"

_"Did I ask for your fucking sass?"_

"You might as well have." With this, he throws his cards into the air. He slams his hands atop your tiny dining table. "Fuck you, Dave, I'm done."

 _"Wow."_ Your left hand forms a "W," with the first three fingers held upwards and apart. As it changes to an "O" you pull you hand back. On the final shift to another "W," you throw your hand forwards and to the side. _"That's really mature."_

"Blah blah blah," he sneers, rises to his feet, and storms from the room.

You, meanwhile, are left with only one thought. This is going to be one fucking long break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **i'm running low on ideas so if you have suggestions for future chapters, that's rad as hell** anyhow i didn't beta this at all so feel free to point out typos and stuff. i'm planning on developing the romance from here.


	26. Where I go, when I go there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**where i go, when i go there** / no more shadows anymore_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/touch-me-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSpv3-_4OBs)]

**[I hate admitting when I'm wrong, especially when the jackass is right.]**

You approach your suitemate with a stance that's as casual as you can possibly manage. Your shoulders are held loosely and your posture is anything but rigid. _"I hate to admit,"_ you sign, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe, _"But I owe you an apology."_

_"Amazing. I never would have guessed."_ With that much said, he shrugs and gestures for you to step inside.

You offer a dramatic roll of your eyes. _"Let me explain."_

_"Shoot."_ It's an informal gesture. He forms a finger gun and jerks it backwards, as if it's fired a shot. With that, he quirks his brow. The edges of his lips twitch, though the skepticism is obvious without it.

In return, you clear your throat. You fold your hands behind your back, hiding your fidgeting from sight, and begin to speak. "As much of an insufferable jackass as you are, I don't think you deserved the shit I spewed on you earlier, so… I'm not about to offer you any in-depth explanation of my actions, because I don't fucking owe you that, but…" Breathe in. Breathe out. Though it's a mostly pointless gesture, seeing as he's little more than a fuzzy blob in your visual field, you avert your gaze. Shortly after doing so, but not before speaking, you remember that you're also wearing shades. _Nonetheless._ "I'm sorry."

You focus your ever-narrowing field of vision on him. (Technically, your vision is holding up for now. According to doctors and experts, it's plateaued; really, though, it's more of an inverse plateau.)

_"Fine."_ With his hand in a five shape—flattened, fingers spread apart—he touches the tip of his thumb to his chest. A loose shrug concludes the statement on an informal, almost dismissive note. _"I guess we're good."_

_"You guess?"_ To make your point clearer, you raise your brows higher than you usually would. You even let forth a quiet hum.

He _guesses_? He _guesses_? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

His response is as vague as you'd expect. Of course, being expected isn't necessarily something good. _"What's your deal? I just said that I guess we're even?"_ Again, he shrugs. This time, it's tense. It's rigid. _"Do we have to delve into my personal life?"_

_"I suppose not."_ You sigh.

He nods approvingly.

Then, an awkward silence falls between the two of you. And it's not a mildly awkward silence. It's one of those over-the-top, crickets-chirping, children-crying-in-the-distance sort of things.

It's enough for him to seem unaware of the fact that he's been rubbing the back of his neck for the past seven minutes.

Enough for you to have to pause and stop yourself from tapping your fingers against the desk you're leaning against.

_"So… You like…"_ He pauses. His eyes dart around the room, clearly groping for anything to talk about. Eventually, he just seems to pull something from his ass. _"Ice cream?"_ He holds a fist to his mouth as if it's an ice cream cone and moves it in a swift downwards motion twice. After quirking his brow, he offers a knowing half-smile. He's fully aware of how awful his attempt at conversation was.

Nonetheless, you decide to take the bait. You don't have that much to do, after all. _"I like vanilla."_ You shrug.

He offers a snicker of laughter. _"You're literally the generic vanilla. No mods. Softcore."_ As if to emphasize his point, his smile turns to a smirk. Not that it needed to; you were getting his message loud and clear before that.

_"I'm a chocolate and strawberry guy."_ Here, he freezes. His gaze wanders, and something about him says that this isn't an intentional pause. The more you watch him, the antsier he gets. His fingers twitch and, eventually, he folds his arms across his chest. After a few more minutes, a defeated huff seems to escape him. His chest rises, falls, and his smirk disappears faster than an ice cream truck in a snow storm. _"I know what it's called. The ice cream with both flavors in it."_

"Neapolitan?" As you say it, you're well aware of the fact that you probably botched it to hell.

He gets your message, though. In fact, he responds with an eager nod. "Mhm." Without any prompting, and to your surprise, you pats you on the shoulder. _"That's it. Thanks."_

_"Don't touch me."_ You take a step back.

To be honest, you kind of like when he touches you. He's surprisingly warm. Well… His presence is; you'd never tell him that. His hands are actually cold. On the flip side, yours are usually warm. You guess it works out in some strange, weird, opposites attract sort of way.

_"Sorry."_

_"Apology accepted."_ This time, for no real reason beyond seeing his reaction, you pat him on the shoulder.

He merely comments, _"So I can't touch you but you can touch me? This seems like a one-sided deal we've got going on."_

_"Does that mean that you want to touch me?"_ Now, it's your turn to smirk.

Dave, meanwhile, blushes. It's almost like a cartoon character—the red rising rapidly and lighting his usually pale face. _"No!"_ His response is terse and aggressive. The motion is as precise as a veteran surgeon's first incision. _"I'd rather lick a stranger's ass."_

You can't help but roll your eyes at the comment. _"That's one fucking huge leap to make. I was just asking a question."_

_"I'm not gay."_ By now, he's getting defensive. His shoulders are tense, and it's obvious to you that it's time to back down.

So, being the semi-decent person you are (sometimes), you do. In fact, you offer him a small wave. _"I'll catch you around later, loser."_

He returns with a nonchalant shrug. _"Whatever. See you in hell."_

_"Hell?"_ You raise your brows and snicker aloud at your own impending punchline. _"You mean around campus?"_

_"Pretty much."_ His answer is as informal as his fake-as-fuck personality. It's a flattened hand, which wobbles back and forth at the wrist. A so-so motion.

You simply do what he does to you most of the time. You shrug, turn your back, and leave him to think about whatever the hell it is that he usually thinks about when he's alone. Not that you'd want to know. It's probably some weird, weird shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **suggestions are super appreciated right now because i'm running out of ideas so...** comments, feedback, and all that are also welcome and appreciated as usual.


	27. One more day to revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**one more day to revolution** / we will nip it in the bud_](http://www.lyricsdirectory.com/portal/soundtrack/lesmiserables/026.htm) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZpTHUy-fGc)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally didn't beta this at all so if you see an error let me know

**[I know it's snowing and I still want ice cream leave me alone]**

Sure, most people don't eat ice cream when it's cold outside. Actually, most people actively avoid eating ice cream under these circumstances. Something about staying warm and all that. Or, maybe, it really _is_ just a common sense. Not to you, of course. Nothing is so-called common sense to you. All of that is just bullshit.

That doesn't mean that people can stare at you while you're eating you ice cream, though. You have a right to eat ice cream in the freezing cold in peace. As an American citizen—even one living in this shitty experimental place called Skaia—you have a fucking right to eat your ice cream and watch it snow in peace.

"I think he's one of those students," a businessman mutters to his apparent buddy, who just so happens to be engulfed in a parka twenty times his size. "One of _those_ students. The problem ones."

The man's friend nods. As he sips at his overpriced coffee, he continues the conversation. "The only ones left are the bad ones, eh? Already? At least it's not Christmas. They get unbearable around then."

You roll your eyes and flick your shades down, covering your eyes. In the back of your mind, you wonder how these rumors came to be. Has this place really been here long enough to make these shitty rumors commonplace?

"Hmph." As the sound escapes you, your breath hits the cold air. It reacts and rises as a puff of what seems like smoke. Somewhere, deep inside of you, you want to laugh. For some reason, you've always been entertained by the condensation.

Your mirth is ruined quickly, however, by the sound of scraping. Metal against pavement.

You look up and find _him_ sitting across from you. His legs are crossed like he's some sort of snooty prince, and you can see his eyes from the side. They're half closed. The light which bounces off of the snow filters through his shades, casting pink circles around those half-closed eyes. Against his hair, that shadow makes it seem almost red.

_Fuck!_

You mentally kick yourself.

_Why are you paying attention to that?_

Casting aside your thoughts, you turn towards observing him objectively. He doesn't seem to notice that you're just a few feet away, and he's also enjoying an ice cream cone. From what you learned yesterday, you're not very surprised to find that he has vanilla ice cream.

You kick the table hard enough for it to scrape across the pavement.

Judging by the fact that his reaction ends with his ice cream all over his black tweed coat, you'd say it's enough to grab his attention.

"What the fuck was that for!?" he thunders, drawing stares from the few commuters within earshot. "Is it your goal to annoy me until I'm fucking dead? Is that your enigmatic goal? Are you some sort of demon sent after me for my sins, your goal in life being only to pester the living hell out of me?"

By now, the onlookers have lost interest.

Frankly, you're starting to, too.

Still, you pull yourself back long enough to respond. _"Didn't mean to ruin your sissy jacket,"_ you sign. A breath of air accompanies a dismissive wave of your hand. _"If it makes you feel better, I'll buy you another cone."_

"Buy me a new jacket, you twit," he snaps. From here, he turns to studying the damage. He eyes the ever-growing puddle of ice cream as it slowly inches down the length of the coat. As both you and he watch, that glob finally slips off. It splats onto the pavement, where it continues to bleed into the thin layer of accumulated snow.

You pause. It takes you a few moments to gather your thoughts. _"Can't do that,"_ you sign, _"But I can get you a killer deal on a new cone."_

_"What?"_ He shrugs. His brows are furrowed. He slips back into signing easily. _"Do you just spit out whatever asinine shit pops into your head?"_

"Hm." You, too, shrug. _"I guess. That's not the point, though. The point is that I can get you another ice cream cone. Take it or leave it, because I'm going when mine is in my fucking stomach."_

From Karkat comes a low, guttural growl. He pulls a pack of tissues—those tiny, pocket pack sort of thing—and begins to aggressively rub the ice cream even deeper into his coat. Or, maybe, he's trying to get it out. Whatever the case is, he's doing a shit job at removing it.

_"Are you always this angry?"_ You smirk as you sign this. It's meant to be a joke, but you're genuinely curious. No one can be this damned pissed off about everything.

Shoving his shredded tissue back into his pocket, Karkat responds with an indignant huff. His hands move quickly, forming phrases at a speed that could even rival your own. Not that it does; you're still the Skaian champion of rapid sign language. _"Are you always this much of a tool?"_

You shrug the comment aside. _"Touché."_

Again, he huffs. Again, his fingers move. This time, though, you find yourself getting lost in those movements. It's something you haven't done in a while. After all, you see sign language every day. You use it every day. It's nothing new or fascinating or novel to you. But something about the way he does it is.

He puts everything into it. Sure, it's part of the language. You use your body to express things nonverbally. You use posture and facial expression and subtle differences in movement to get the point across. But he does more than that. It's passionate. It's visceral. In a way, it reminds you of a child. He moves without any thought of grace, yet it ends up being so smooth…

"Strider?" A voice pierces your thoughts. Like the water in a freshly popped balloon, your mind goes damned near everywhere. "Strider!?"

You jump slightly as you return to reality. It dawns upon you that he's asking for you to respond, but you have no fucking clue what you're responding to.

_"Welcome back from Mars. What the hell is in that thick skull of yours? Literal bullshit?"_ As he concludes this, he pinches the bridge of his nose. The action raises his shades a bit. He winces at the sudden influx of light, and quickly withdraws his hand. _"How about you just give me three dollars and we'll call it even?"_

You nod. Slowly. Very slowly. Three dollars and all of this social whatever will be over. He'll leave you alone.

You should be excited as hell right now. He'll leave! He'll be out of your hair and you'll have the rest of the day to do whatever you want! You could go sit in the empty fountain outside of the Mayor's house and croak like a tree frog for the next twelve hours… If you wanted to, of course.

That's beside the point, though.

The point is that you feel oddly empty. In fact, you don't feel even an ounce of relief. You find yourself almost disappointed to let him go.

Not that you'd say any of that aloud.

No.

In fact, as all these thoughts ruminate like rancid Sardinian contraband cheese, you reach into your pocket and pull out a crisp five dollar bill. You extend it towards him between your index and middle finger, all while offering the shittiest smile you can manage.

Naturally, he takes it. _"I'm keeping the change,"_ he comments after stashing it away.

You nod. _"Cool. I was going to tell you to."_

_"Have fun stroking your own ego, douchebag,"_ he rolls his eyes, straightens his shades, and turns.

You, meanwhile, are left with your unsigned witty comeback, and the taste of the emotional equivalent of casu marsu in the back of your mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **comments and feedback and suggestions are still super appreciated, especially suggestions.** i hope you liked the chapter and i'm not sure if i'll get another one up for a few days. my computer's being dropped off to get cleaned up so.......


	28. There will be a show tonight on trampoline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[for the benefit of mr. kite / **there will be a show tonight on trampoline**](https://play.google.com/music/preview/T7wrlshxj7akcbkmqjbnm5lxj7m?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics&u=0#)_ [[you're not high this really is the video link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59ahx9ckqIw)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "oh my god what if this entire fic is just a really long bottle episode" said 50% off probably

**[I could have died.]**

It's with great apprehension that you pry whatever it was that you bit down on from between your teeth. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't be doing this; people with manners don't stick their fingers into their mouth like children and pull out food. Right now, though, it's a different story. Right now, there's a problem. And that problem is that mashed potatoes are _not_ supposed to be crunchy. In fact, no form of properly prepared potato is supposed to be crunchy unless its preparation instructions specifically say that they should be crunchy. As far as you know, mashed potatoes are not one of these potato prep methods.

Slowly, you pull from your mouth the thoroughly smashed and jagged remains of a skewer. The sort of pointy stick that most places use to spear meat or vegetables and not to season motherfucking mashed potatoes.

Your first thought is that you could have died. In fact, you might still die. There may still be a shard of sharp wood travelling down your esophagus right now.

However, after a brief second of careful consideration, you dismiss the idea. Dying from poorly prepared cafeteria potatoes isn't the worst way to go. It's not the best, but you can't be too picky on how and when you kick the proverbial bucket.

At least you’ve got some good gossip going down nearby.

Not that you gossip. No, you would never in a million years gossip. Unless you hated the subject of the accusation. Maybe you'd gossip then. But not for some random stranger, such as whoever the fuck this "Sally" is.

"Yeah. I heard they threw her in the solitary confinement dorm," whispers one of the girls near your table. (She's not very good at whispering. If _you_ can hear her, she's actually a candidate for being the worst whisperer in the world.) "No visitors and no leaving. Six weeks."

 _Damn._ The thought flashes through your mind. Like the gossip, it's little more than a fleeting commentary to coincide with your morning coffee. And your coffee, unlike your potentially deadly potatoes, is how you've always liked it. Black. No cream. No sugar. Nothing but bitter, bitter energy. How are you supposed to curse the world with sweet energy, after all?

"Damn," another of the girls, this one as bad at whispering as the other, "Sally must have sold _a lot_ of weed to get six weeks."

 _Weed? Just weed? Six weeks for weed?_ You sigh and stare into your now-empty cup. As much as you love your morning coffee, you can only ever have one. Two makes you way too jumpy. In fact, the last time you had two, you punched someone in the face. As it turns out, that someone was your buddy, Sollux, trying to give you a birthday gift. Not that it matters now.

With a few swift movements, you stack your plates and trot off to the dirty dish conveyor belt. From there, you return to your room.

You have nothing to do today, so you've planned a nice, relaxing day. A day where you have absolutely nothing at all to do with Dave goddamned Strider. And pizza is the perfect lunch to mark the middle of your anti-Strider agenda.

You use the online form. Naturally. It's easier to just click away than to bother trying to go through a fucking relay service for a lousy less-than-ten-dollar pizza. (They're not _really_ lousy. They're not the best, but they're pretty good. You're not complaining about the quality of the pizza; in fact, you have nothing against it beyond the fact that it's not Pizza Hut.)

When you're done, you wait.

 

* * *

 

**[I just need some goddamned money because that's what capitalism fucking does]**

"It'll only be a day," André said. "Probably only one delivery," André said.

Yeah. Right. That'll be the last time you listen to your chemistry lab partner. He's a nice guy, but you're never filling in for him again. He can deliver pizza with the fucking stomach flu next time.

" _Thank you for ordering from Pepper's Pizza Place. Here's your…_ " you squint at the greasy receipt in your hands. " _…Double beef and bacon pizza spectacular…_ " God. Just saying that makes you gag. How fucking disgusting.

"I just wanted _one_ day," a voice draws your gaze from the paper to a familiar face. "Just _one_ day without _you_."

How did you end up delivering to…?

"Here's your money, go." He snatches the pizza from you and presses a wad of single dollar bills against your chest.

Naturally, you can't pass up the opportunity. After pocketing the cash, you smirk. _"I didn't know you were into that. So you're in a band and you're—"_

Before you can finish, he interjects. "NO!" he thunders. He scrambles like a frightened crab in the sand to put down his pizza. When he returns, his hands begin to move with the same speed and frantic grace that you've become accustomed to. _"I can't believe this. You're a real bastard, aren't you? What? Do you love me!? Is that why you keep bothering me like some lost, ugly puppy."_

You freeze.

It's a complicated question.

Really, it is.

It is a very, very, very, very complicated question. It's like asking for you to find the meaning of life. Or to calculate the exact circumference of the core of the sun. Or to cure aphasia in five seconds.

It's like a lot of complicated things.

Except, this time, there's something at the heart of it all. This time, there's an answer. And you _know_ the answer. You just don't want to acknowledge the answer.

Yet…

 _"You're nice to look at,"_ you admit. You don't know why you're admitting this. And you don't know why you're letting your fingers weave out a quilt of poorly buried truths. _"And maybe I like you kind of. I'm not gay, though. I'm not gay. Maybe you're gay, and that's fine, but it's not like you're hitting on me. Right?"_

You chew on your lip.

At times like these, you have a bad habit of speaking aloud. It's not entirely voluntary. Rose says that it's nerves. And, so far, Rose is the only one who's seen you do it. But, now…

The words are fluent in your head. You know what you want to say, but it just doesn't come out the right…

 

* * *

 

**[I didn't sign up for this. I just wanted pizza. Why is my life a massive clusterfuck?]**

If there's one thing that confuses the hell out of you, it's people who speak while they sign. They're doing one thing and literally talking out of the other side of their mouth at the same time. It's fucking weird. You've never understood it beyond the contexts of interpreting, and even that annoys you at times.

 _This_ , though.

This is just outrageous. He's saying two different things.

Constantly.

He'll say one thing and sign another. And most of what he's saying makes no sense; his signing isn't much better. He's been stumbling through things like an awkward, freshly born foal with twelve legs, and you've had goddamned enough of it.

"Stop!" Your first attempt falls flat. And that's putting it nicely. It's more like it jumped off a roof and came crashing down to earth, where it then proceeded to burst through the ground itself and plummet all the way down to hell. "STOP!" you repeat.

This time, he listens.

A quiet electronic hum greets you. Your field of useful vision focuses on him, with his almost pathetic little frown and his furrowed blond brows. In fact, now that you're thinking about it, those eyebrows are definitely being meticulously maintained. No one has eyebrows with such naturally fine outer points.

That aside, you indulge in the newfound silence. You breathe in deeply, and exhale all your frustrations away.

Unfortunately, you're not so easily influenced. So, really, you only exhale about one tenth of a percent of your frustrations. The rest come flooding out like shockwaves from your hands as you continue your response. _"You're the most impossible to understand fuckwit I've ever met. I would rather gag myself with a fishhook than have to stand being around you for five goddamned minutes._

_"And it's so painfully obvious that you've had some sort of weirdly homophobic boner for me since the day we met. It bleeds from you like I've stabbed you in the fucking heart with a jagged bamboo shoot."_

It's not necessary, seeing as you're using your hands, but you still take a breather. Signing this intensely and for so long can be tiring, after all. In fact, with how you sign, you're surprised that 'Intense, Angry ASL' isn't the next new Olympic sport. After a few seconds, you continue with as much passion and irritated gumption as before.

Thus, you continue, signing, _"If I had a dollar for every time you did the equivalent of a 'no homo' to me, I'd be rich enough to move out of this shitty town."_ You honestly had more to say, but you find yourself running out of steam. You find this odd, seeing as you're usually one for long-winded speeches, but your dignity has common sense. In other words, you know when to stop. You're not about to embarrass yourself by going on some wild tangent. So, instead, you concede. _"Anything to say, Strider?"_

To your dismay, he simply shrugs. A sound escapes him, and you think you make it out.

Nonetheless, you repeat what you think you heard to be sure. "Nah?"

He nods. He repeats himself. This time, he adds to the monosyllable with his hands. _"You sure do talk a lot. I bet you'd be a really annoying asshole if you actually spoke more."_ Again, he shrugs. He rubs the back of his neck, but that's the only sign of uncertainty that he's showing. _"Whatever."_ His loosely flattened palms are held level with his chest. He swings the left hand outwards. As he brings this hand back, his right swings out. He repeats the pattern a few times. _"Enjoy your pizza, dude."_

With that, he turns on his heel and pulls the door closed behind him. And that leaves you standing in your room, alone, feeling as if your jaw has smashed through the floor and gone straight into the fiery depths of hell.

It all leaves you with a single, simple thought: _Why the fuck do you bother?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so **suggestions, comments, and feedback are still appreciated welcomed and please comment** let me know how i'm doing! i'm also on [my shitty blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com), where i reblog myself, shitty homestuck things, gay things, musical things, and ~~beg for money~~ provide links to my etsy store. so check me out there.


	29. Geniuses, lower your voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _**Geniuses, lower your voices** / You keep out of trouble and you double your choices_ ](https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tiedd4bv2d2gdbwldx63dfzeysy?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics&u=0#)

**[Well this sure is unexpected and all but]**

A long sigh escapes you as you sit atop your bed, listening to the unholy gurgling of a clogged toilet. Somewhere, on this campus, there's a harried maintenance worker rushing to your suite bathroom to unclog something. You're not saying that you did it, but you're not saying that you _didn't_ do it. And you're not saying that Karkat is or isn't responsible, either. What you're trying to say is that you've been caught in a rut lately, and a good chunk of the past few days has been spent doing nothing more than mulling over things.

For instance, what harm could it do? Asking him out, that is. Asking  _Karkat_ out. Bro isn't here. And you're  _legally_ an adult. Sure, you're an adult without any real rights, but you're still an adult. And so is Karkat. Not that that really makes a difference…

In this manner, you let your mind wander. You stare at your rooms ceiling and count the little, round points of flat against the sea of popcorn texture. You consider the time.

Karkat will be back any minute, now. His class is almost over, and the mandatory dinner block is less than an hour away.

So, in your head, you come up with scenarios. You think of what to say. How to say it.

"Date me." Too upfront. Too demanding.

"I love you." Jumping the gun.  _Really_ jumping the gun. And that's a gun that's fully loaded. You could say you're playing Russian roulette with your pride. Except, in this game, every chamber is loaded and the result is getting shot in either the dick or the ass.

Another long sigh.

You flop over, so that you're lying on your stomach, and fiddle around with your phone. You type in one message after another, deleting every single one before you can hit send.

After a while, you decide to ask someone who will help you with this sort of thing. You wander down the hallway, to John's room.

As per usual, he greets you with one of this overwrought grins. It's a smile that stretches from one side of his face to the other; if it weren't for his cute face and nonthreatening posture, he might pass for a Joker type. One of those people who smile all the time and never really have a reason to. Of course, right now, he has a damned good reason to be smiling.  _Anyone_ would smile if you just waltzed in on them. At least, that's what you tell yourself. And, true to form, John confirms your outlandish assumption. "Unexpected surprise today, asshole. What's up?"

You shrug. It's a loose, disinterested movement, like something that someone who didn't give a damn about anything would do. You  _do_ give a damn, though. You give a damn about a lot of things. For instance, you give a damn about  _him_. And  _him_. Both hims, you suppose. Not that is matters. And none of that is really important. What's important is what you came here for. You pry your hands from your pockets, surprising yourself with the amount of effort it takes to do so.  _"What would you say if I said that I just might have the tiniest little crush on Karkat."_ To somehow lessen the blow of this statement, you waste no time in continuing. Your hands move without pause and with the utmost confidence.  _"Not that I'm gay or anything. I'm just curious. Maybe I wanted to get to know him better. That's all I'm suggesting."_

John nods. His brows furrow, forming an arch of obvious skepticism. "That's some really gay shit, Dave."

You let forth a long, troubled sigh.  _"I figured."_ Folding your arms across your chest, you consider the possibilities. You can tell Karkat about your feelings. That's always an option, and it's definitely the most logical one. It's also the least appealing of all of them.

Then again, what else are you going to do?

Going on this endless loop of avoidance is…

Quite honestly, it's getting annoying. You'd much rather stop. You want out. You want to get off of whatever shitty, awful ride this is supposed to be. It's like a roller coaster, but for your feelings. And anything that has to do with feelings is guaranteed to be not fun.

Still, what other options are there?

What else can you do?

Not fucking much.

Obviously, there's a "good" option and a "bad" option.

_"What do you suggest I do, then, Proclaimer of Sexualities?"_ To show your discontent, you furrow your brows. In the most serious way possible, you stick out your tongue. In hindsight, there's only so much sincerity you—or anyone, for that matter—can put behind such an action.

Meanwhile, John shrugs. "Grow a fucking pair, Dave," he replies bluntly. "Just tell him."

Another sigh. You run your fingers through your hair as you take in your best friend's words.  _"Okay. I'll do it."_

"Great. Now, can I go back to writing my essay?" As he says this, John begins to flip through his notebook. He eyes the rapidly changing notes and quirks his brows inquisitively. "Please?" Here, he adopts a very old and very dirty trick. Those damned puppy dog eyes. Big, round, shimmery saucers of blue. He looks like some overdone anime character from the 90's, but you can't say no to him.

_"Whatever."_ You offer a dismissive "psh" to try and play off the confusion boiling inside of you.  _"Have fun being an overachiever, dork."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not updating lately
> 
> college and trying to sell my art and doing things and lack of ideas so suggestions, feedback, and comments are welcome


	30. Ease my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_please won't you call and / **ease my mind**_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgdahnCtU0E)  
>  Yes, that's the song from Cowboy Bebop. 

**[Well I didn't mean to but if you insist]**

"Today, on _How It's Made_ : Life castings… Trophies… and Go-Karts." The television drones on. You've never been one for the Science Channel. Hell, you've never been one for the educational channels in general; they're boring most of the time. Even that show about people living in Alaska like wild mountain men isn't all that interesting. To you, it's all paltry reality television. Maybe there'll be a good episode of one of those pawn or picking shows, but very rarely is anything else on those channels worth any of your time. Nonetheless, with little else on besides another episode of _Cops_ —and that's one you've already seen, anyhow—you don't have much of a choice. You like watching television while you study, and you managed to find a cheap one at a local Goodwill over the weekend. Or, rather, over the singular day that's supposed to suffice as your weekend. That the school even had a cable service was a pleasant surprise; it took a hell of a lot of searching to find the cable plug, but you eventually located it hidden behind the wardrobe. Getting there took some wood peeling, but it was worth it at the time. Now? Not so much.

You heave a long, tenuous sigh. Clearly, today is not your day. It's also not cable television's day.

"You absolute fucking twit," the comment is loud and clear. The voice is undeniable. "Don't you dare—" the voice pauses as the bathroom door swings open and Karkat, in all his blazing, angry glory, barges in. He waves a handful of papers in the air and groans. "Do not print from my goddamned printer again, dammit."

Unfazed by his commentary, you merely shrug. _"Got that,"_ you hum. _"Any other requests? Concerns? Comments?"_

By now, whatever it was that fueled his annoyed rage has subsided. Or, maybe, he's just out of things to say. Whatever the case is, he simply stares at you with cockeyed confusion. His brows furrow.

_"You free later today?"_ You blurt it out; there's little point in delaying or prolonging the most awkward sort of suffering to exist. _"Maybe for dinner or lunch or something?"_ Honestly, you know the answer. You know his schedule. He is most definitely free late; you're just hoping there's something you've overlooked. A plan or appointment or sudden plan for you to get his by a bus, maybe? You wring your hands together.

_"I guess?"_ Again, his thick brows twist and bend until they're pressed firmly together, nearly forming a singular unibrow of confusion. _"For what? Is this some sort of shitty dare?"_ With that much said, he simply folds his arms across his chest. Like a confused puppy, he cocks his head to the side.

You, in return, merely scoff. Your hands move, forming a facetious response. _"I am offended by this callous accusation. What motivation would I have to do such a shitty thing?"_

A shrug. _"Why not?"_ Karkat sighs.

_"No. Really. Dinner tonight? It's steak night and I stole a few tickets for extras. You can borrow one."_ To emphasize your point, you pull from your wallet a handful of bright red raffle tickets. _"Okay. So I bought them on Amazon. They don't check the numbers on these fuckers."_

_"Outrageous."_ Karkat groans. He massages his temples with his knuckles and rolls his eyes in the most dramatic way possible.

_"Here's the deal,"_ you try to explain,  _"I might as well give this shit a shot, right?"_ The statement ends with your brows raised and your mouth slightly open, indicating a question.  _"What's the worst that could happen?"_

_"I'm made the fucking butt of every joke this campus has to offer about dating the least desirable jerk on campus."_ Karkat's reply is neither a question nor a joke. It's a simple, honest statement. No one ever said honesty was always forgiving.  _"Fine. Whatever. I'm already a the bottom of the social food chain here. You want to try it, go ahead. I don't give a fuck. Try me."_

You can't help but snicker.  _"Like some sort of cheap pharmacy chain toy? Press the button and you'll do something?"_

_"Yeah."_ An affirmative nod adds meaning to the signing.  _"I'll roll around on the floor, writing in pain and agony brought on by the death of the tiny scrap of dignity I had left in this fucking meat sack."_

_"Harsh."_ Despite your comment, you take him up on his offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super busy right now, so sorry for the lack of updates. I'm also out of ideas and I've fallen off the writing bus. I've been working more on art to sell online and shit.


	31. I could see your face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_now it's strange for me / **i could see your face**_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=talq3FbX56o) (Reluctant Heroes)

**[I have no idea what we're doing at this point]**

_"So…"_ It's not so much that you've signed anything. Instead, your hands fumble mindlessly in the air. You grope for something to say, wishing with every fiber of your being that you could pull words from the nothingness in front of you. _"What sort of things do you like doing?"_

 _"Having shared the same shitty excuse for a bathroom for as long as we have, I would have thought you'd know."_ Karkat comments, his eyes digging into you like a child rips a new one into an ice cream sundae. "What sort of things do you not like doing? Speaking, obviously." He pauses, waves his hands in a show of mock concern, and finally returns his attentions to you. _"I'm sorry. I thought we were asking stupid, shitty questions. I guess not."_

You, unable at this point to discern any real meaning from this, stubbornly forge onwards with your plan. You worked up the guts to be here, after all, and you're not going to waste those guts. _"For a Deaf kid, you sure do love to hear yourself talk shit."_

 _"Watching myself sign derogatory things to random assholes is what I live for,"_ Karkat responds. His expression is deadpan, so the meaning of this statement is ambiguous. _"Look, I don't have time for this weird Strider mindgame bullshit you're trying to pull. So can we just get this over with?"_

You pause. You consider the information you've been presented. Slowly, you try to offer some sort of reassurance, _"No, really, this is legitimate."_ You freeze. Your twitching fingers trace large circles in the air in front of you as you try to think of something more to say. _"I figure I might as well get to know you or whatever. I mean. If nothing else, we're dating for the band."_

 _"Ugh. Fine."_ He rubs his thumbs against his temples and wrinkles his nose. _"Whatever. What's your goddamned question? What do you need to know so goddamned fucking badly?"_ His question ends with a snarl. Like everything else, it's far louder than he probably believes it really is.

You shrug. For no real reason, you decide to see what happens if you yank his chain a bit. Your hands move with all the speed and ease of… Well, it's second nature to you. _"Are you actually Deaf?"_

"Hah." He laughs aloud before pressing the tips of his index and middle fingers to his thumb. _"No. Fuck you. It's so amazing walking around waving my hands in the air like a confused mine." He rolls his eyes and sighs. "Look, you can eat my shit. Right now. You can shove your shitty, pale, clammy, beefy hands into a toilet and eat. My. Shit."_ He emphasizes each word with a long pause.

You shrug. You bury your hands in your pockets and rock back and forth, shifting your weight from the balls of your feet to your heels. Back and forth. Back and forth. Smile wide. Dig in deep. Slowly, you withdraw your hands. _"Mm, yeah."_ You lick your lips and waffle your brows. _"I love shitplay. Feel it up."_ You move your hands as if your playing with Play-Doh. It's not real signing, but it gets your point across. However, you eventually resort to signing properly soon after beginning. _"I love shit. Squash it between your fingers, rub it around, smear it on your face."_

 _"Damned pervert."_ Karkat folds his arms across his chest and shrugs. _"Look, I quit. This is too damned much."_ That said, he turns.

And You react by grabbing him on the shoulder. "STOP!" In your haste, you say it aloud. The syllable rises from deep within your chest and comes from your mouth like fire from a dragon's maw.

Karkat, in return, jumps. He grabs onto his cochlear implant and winces. _"Shit!"_ He pulls away from you. _"What the hell? You're being a jackass."_

You shrug, which is something that seems to be happening a lot lately. As if it will somehow help lessen the oncoming blow, you smile nervously. _"I was joking around. Come on. Give it a chance."_

Karkat freezes. Only his eyes move, scanning you over from head to toe. Eventually, you hear a reply—a long and uncharacteristically quiet sigh. _"Fine."_ His hands move without their usual rough grace. Terse, rigid motions. _"You have two hours."_

 

* * *

 

**[Tell me why I agreed to this absolute bullshit.]**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you're… Honestly, despite your initial distress and uncertainty, you can't help but admit that you're having a good time. It's something entirely unexpected. Nothing you could have even dreamed of.

But, somehow, beneath it all… Somehow, beneath his arrogant fuck-all cocky attitude, Dave Strider is actually a nice guy.

Somehow, Dave Strider is a pretty decent guy, and it's fucking bullshit. It is absolute fucking bullshit, and you hate it. You hate everything about it. You hate everything about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same old thing. comments, feedback, and pointing out my typos because i wrote this on my phone are appreciated. sorry this is short. i'm running low on ideas and things but yeah an update fuckin amazing. wheeeee. for once i kind of have my life together. kind of. (✿◠‿◠)


	32. Life is just a dream you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**life is just a dream you know** / that's never ending_ [Blue]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YeUQ1TkCx9E)

**[I don't understand why we're doing this.]**

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

You find yourself outside, in the pouring rain, and down a box of cigarettes. As of about a week ago, you're dating  _the_ Dave Strider. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't like the jealousy from pretty much  _everyone_ on campus. Not that Dave is worth it. If any of them understood what that shitty little dweeb was saying, they'd flee as far as they possibly could. He's no suave tango dancer macho model. He's a fucking dork. A huge dork with nothing better to say than shitty jokes and bad analogies a good majority of the time.

Right now, you're waiting outside of the smoky bar you just played in. A late night Monday gig.

Meanwhile, with the most grandiose and over-the-top gestures possible, he pontificates about… something. You don't really know what is going on anymore.

_"You think the school would do anything if we just ran away? Skipped classes forever and hightailed it the hell out of here? Hell, maybe even out of Skaia altogether."_ He quirks his brow and frowns at the end of his inquiry.

Unsure of a decent response, you merely shrug. _"We'd have to try it to figure out. And I'm not willing to put my ass on the line like that for a handful of dating experience."_

Dave nods slowly. Without asking, he plucks the cigarette you're smoking from between your lips and takes a deep drag from it. Then, as if this is a totally normal occurrence, he returns it to you. His hands move in their usual, hurried-but-graceful way as a plume of smoke escapes from his slightly parted lips. _"I get that much. Makes total sense. I'm just wondering. Aren't you sick of this shit?"_ His brows knit together, forming a distinct, inverted chevron. _"Don't you want to see what's outside of this place? Get out of Skaia and see the fucking world?"_

_"Not really. I've resigned myself to a life of pure mediocrity. Welcome to the Land of Dissatisfaction and Hopelessness."_ You're lying. Nonetheless, you have no idea where these inquiries are coming from.

_"Whatever."_ Like that, he drops the subject. _"I think we did pretty good work today. Your playing was good. A bit heavy."_ A sage nod. He fixes his shades and nods in the direction of school. _"We should get going."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost forgot about this one, and here's a really short update i had queued. suggestions are appreciated to jump-start this fic, though i'm working on an update.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i thought you said collage not college](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8312200) by [godtiermeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme)




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